


the great motorbike chase of 1992

by flightofthebluealiens



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1990s, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Character Death, Coming of Age, Friends to Lovers, George Harrison Is a Good Friend, Internalized Homophobia, John is a Mess, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Road Trips, Romantic Tension, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, oblivious Paul, the author loves some good italics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:36:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 66,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26032006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightofthebluealiens/pseuds/flightofthebluealiens
Summary: "I want to go find me real dad," said John.Paul quite nearly choked on his toast. The keys kept twirling.Paul McCartney turned seventeen years old in the summer of 1992, and he only wanted two things out of the holiday: to play music, and to laze about, at least until he had to go to work.This plan worked out excellently for him until the first day of July when John Lennon turned up on his doorstep. Holding the set of keys to a brand-new motorbike, and with the intent to track down his long-lost biological father. After a bit of resistance, Paul went along. Because how could henot?Thus began their thirty-day road trip across Great Britain: a journey that changed not only Paul’s perception of the world at large but his perception of himself and the people he thought he knew inside and out.
Relationships: George Harrison & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 87
Kudos: 126





	1. Liverpool, Or: There's No Place Like Home

The first day of July 1992 was a warm and sunny day with a light breeze and hardly any humidity. By all accounts, it was perfect weather, whether it be for a barbecue or a game of footie or a swim at the neighborhood pool.

However, it was Liverpool. Paul should have taken the perfect weather as a bad omen.

When he woke up, it was eight thirty-three. Sunlight was streaming through Paul’s half-closed blinds, warming his bare chest and face. It was a Wednesday, and Paul didn’t have to go into work, so he rolled back over in bed and pressed his face into the pillow. He sighed and stretched his legs luxuriously. Life was truly great when he got the opportunity to sleep in.

His peace was abruptly ruined when he realized why he had woken up: somebody was pounding at the door downstairs. Paul raised his head and listened again, hoping he was mistaken. But alas, the doorbell rang, and he let his hopes of further sleep drift into the wind. Standing up, he winced as the blood rushed to his head. His hands fumbled on the floor for a shirt and trousers. The doorbell rang again, and then there was additional ‘knocking,’ if it could even be called that.

Paul shouted “just a second!” as he left his room, made his way down the hall and descended the stairs. He pulled on his clothes along the way. The knocking was getting more and more impatient, and as Paul buttoned up his jeans and reached for the door handle, he wondered who would be so rude as to interrupt his sleep before nine. Especially on his day off.

He swung the door open, and there was John Lennon, standing on his doorstep with greasy hair and a distinctly unfriendly look on his face.

“Ah. That’s who,” Paul muttered.

“Nice to see you too,” John said. “Is Jim home?” He squinted past Paul and into the hallway, which couldn’t have helped much, considering he wasn’t wearing his glasses and couldn’t see shite anyway.

“No,” said Paul. He leaned against the doorframe and cocked an eyebrow. “Hope you weren’t tryin’ to make a gentleman’s call on Da.”

John rolled his eyes, a familiar sight to anybody who spent time around him. “Jus’ don’t wanna run into him,” he said. “Your old man hates my guts.”

“I didn’t know you cared so much about what my old man thinks.”

Now it was John’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Get out of the way, son. I’ve got to talk to you.” He glanced around, as though Jim was hiding around a corner somewhere, ready to pounce on John and berate him for his cursing and smoking.  
Paul stood aside and let John come in. John was one of those people who made himself at home without hesitation. He kicked off his shoes and draped his leather jacket over one of the armchairs in the sitting room. He then collapsed into said armchair with a sigh.

Paul shook his head fondly and went to sit down, but John interrupted him. “Be a dear and get us some toast, would you?” John batted his eyelashes mockingly. “I’ve been waiting on your doorstep for an hour, just burning calories. All that knocking.”

“Have you really?” Paul knew he hadn’t, but got up to make toast anyway. John would just go into the kitchen and make it himself if Paul didn’t do it, and that was never good: he had a talent for setting things on fire that was equal parts horrifying and impressive.

John smiled triumphantly and followed Paul into the kitchen, leaning back against the counter as Paul fetched the butter and the bread. “Nah. Jus’ felt like an hour,” he said, with that woe-is-me tone that Paul always made fun of him for. John the Wretched.

Paul stuck two pieces of bread in the toaster and peeked over his shoulder at John. A beam of sunlight was coming in between the blinds and hitting his hair, bringing out the red in it. He was still squinting. Paul looked back at the butter dish.

“Anyroad, I figured you’d be home. No work today?”

“Not unless I get called in for overtime,” Paul responded. It was not the first time they’d had this conversation. His friend’s memory was selective. “Thank God. I don’t think I can last the summer there.”

The corner of John’s mouth quirked up. “You’re working at a hardware store,” John said, as though Paul needed a reminder. “It’s just about the easiest job in town.”

Paul’s eyes widened in offense, and he turned to face John. “It’s not when you don’t know shite about hardware. Do I look like I know where to find a three-quarter inch torque wrench? ‘M getting paid to tell people to talk to me coworker Jessica, who apparently knows how to install an irrigation system.” He puffed out a sigh and wrinkled up his nose. “Whatever the hell that is.”

John laughed, and Paul couldn’t help but mirror his smile. It was a lovely expression to be making. “At least you’re not working at McDonald’s. Our George smells like chips during rehearsal.”

Paul gasped. “So that’s what the smell is! I knew it was familiar.” John laughed harder, and Paul couldn’t help but laugh too.

The toast popped up behind him, and he turned to butter it, handing a piece to John. Paul took a large bite of his own, talking despite his full mouth. “You know I’m always glad to see you, but… why’re you here at nine in the morning?”

A smile flitted across John’s face, and he set his toast down (Paul privately winced at the thought of wiping butter off the counter), fishing in the pocket of his skinny jeans until he pulled out a set of keys. Motorbike keys, if Paul wasn’t mistaken. They twirled dangerously around John’s index finger. “How would you feel about a road trip, son?”

Paul swallowed his bite of toast and looked at his friend with wide eyes. “Uh, it depends. Where would we be going? Would it be on a, uh, bike?”

“I want to go find me real dad,” said John.

Paul quite nearly choked on his toast. The keys kept twirling.

What am I supposed to say to that? thought Paul. What could he say other than why? But then John would close up like a clamshell, as he always did, and Paul would get nowhere. Worse, John would invite one of his other mates.

“Uhm,” said Paul, quite eloquently, given the situation.

John cocked his head at Paul and waited. Paul’s eyes fixed on the keys, still spinning, reminding him of a pendulum that a girlfriend had tried to hypnotize him with months ago. His mouth hung open, and John stopped swinging the keys.

“Uhm,” Paul repeated, “why?” _Goddamnit. Nice one, Paul._

He was surprised when John answered. “Just want to meet him, y’know?” He paused, eyes moving over Paul’s face. “Need to know if the bastard’s better off.” _Without me._ The words were unspoken, but they were still there, and Paul couldn’t help but frown.

Logically, Paul knew he couldn’t go. There was his job, which he couldn’t quit at a moment’s notice, no matter how much he hated it. And there was Mike to think of, who relied on Paul to make dinner since Jim worked late. To take him to footie practice and his friends’ houses and the like. Plus, there was George and the band, and Paul’s sort-of girlfriend, Christine. Well, they had only gone on a few dates, but Paul was hoping to pull her soon enough… He couldn’t do that if he were gallivanting around England countryside with John, looking for an absentee father.

“I can’t go” was the way this translated.

John’s indifferent smirk remained, but Paul swore he saw John’s face momentarily fall. Just a flash of disappointment. “And why the hell not?”

Paul winced at the tone of John’s voice. It was clear that he had upset him. “I’ve just… I’ve got responsibilities, y’know? You don’t have work or anything, but I do, and…”

John’s lip curled slightly, and he stood up straight, tucking the keys back into his pocket. “You know, Paul, some of us aren’t so fortunate as to get work whenever we want it.”

 _Oh no, just stop talking, you’re making it worse!_ “John, come on. I wasn’t sayin’ that! I just meant that I have to work, and I need the money, you know, for uni…”

This did, indeed, make it worse. Paul knew what John dreamed of, knew that John wanted them to be the next tremendously popular rock band. But if his friend was taking art classes, then… well, why couldn’t Paul take courses of his own? He sighed and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, then looked back at John.

John was staring at him like he had just drowned a cat.

“I’m sorry,” Paul hurriedly said, unconsciously flinching as John glowered at him. “Listen, John, I-”

“I’m going to go,” John said, and so he did. He was in such a rush to leave Paul’s house that he carried his shoes out instead of putting them on.

Paul stood alone in the kitchen and stared at the piece of toast John had left behind. It sat butter-down on the counter. There wasn’t a single bite taken out of it.

\------

At two in the afternoon, Paul was lying in the middle of George’s bedroom floor. His acoustic guitar was flat against his chest. George was busy frowning at himself in the mirror, pulling various hats off a shelf in his closet and shoving them on his head. Every hat eventually found its way to the floor beside Paul.

“An’ I just said that I needed the money, an’… well, I said I needed it for uni,” Paul said, his fingers tracing over the fretboard.

“He didn’t like that,” George stated, picking up a particularly bulbous maroon beanie and tugging it on over his hair. He made a face; it promptly joined the others on the floor.

Paul reached over and grabbed the beanie, shoving it on his head. “Not at all.” 

He sighed, thinking of John’s hurt, angry face when he had mentioned university. It was unfair that John expected him to sit around until the band was successful when John took courses, but then again, when was John particularly fair? Paul strummed halfheartedly at his guitar strings, staring up at George’s popcorn ceiling.

George hummed in response and considered a straw cowboy hat that his cousin had gifted him one Christmas; it was thrown to the floor without even making it on George’s head.

“An’ the thing is,” Paul continued, “I would go with him. If it wasn’t for work and Mike and all that. ‘S not like I have anything else to do.”

He paused for a moment. There were two versions of Paul in his head at once. Saintly, people-pleasing, Responsible Paul: he always listened to his dad and remembered to take out the trash. But there was also Irrational Paul, who wanted to play guitar in a rock band and thought about running away with John Lennon, the human equivalent of a misdemeanor charge.

Irrational Paul was forcing Responsible Paul into a chokehold and making a list of demands while he had the floor.

George, bless his heart, had sat down on the bed and was looking at Paul with his usual expression of sympathy. His whole face seemed to droop. “Well, why can’t you go? Seems to me you could just quit your job. An’ Mike’s a big boy. He can make his own lasagna.”

Paul heaved a sigh and set his guitar down beside him, scrubbing his hands over his face. “‘S just not that simple, Haz. My old man won’t let me go anyway. He doesn’t like John much. An’ I really do need to make some money this summer, an’ there’s Christine…”

“I’m sorry,” interrupted George, not sounding very sorry at all, “you’re still tryin’ to hook Christine? Are you daft?”

“Yes,” said Paul. “I mean, no. I’m not daft. Yes, I’m still with Christine.”

“You’re not with her at all,” George pointed out. “You’ve taken her on a few dates, an’ she won’t put out. Honestly, I dunno what you were expectin’, considerin’ she’s Catholic an’ all. So if you’re gonna stay at home and mope about John, then you ought to have a better reason than some uptight lass with a skirt the length of a yardstick.”

Paul chose to ignore the phrase ‘mope about John,’ considering it was not what he was doing.

“Okay, fine. So I’m not with Christine. But I still have other responsibilities.”

George rolled his eyes so violently his entire head moved. “You never have any fun, Macca. I love Jim like my own father, but he keeps you so busy with your responsibilities; you can hardly make it to performances.”

Paul sighed and rolled over so that he was on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows. “I’m havin’ fun right now, aren’t I?”

His friend arched an eyebrow and stood up, making his way back over to the mirror. “This is different,” George said after a moment. “Goin’ with John would be good for you.”

“I’m starting to think you want me to leave,” Paul muttered.

George turned back to face him; an especially hideous winter hat pulled over his head. The pink-and-yellow pom-pom contrasted sharply with his Talking Heads t-shirt and cutoffs. It was probably a present from a well-intentioned grandmother.

The pom-pom shook as George nodded. “He invited you for a reason. I think you should at least give it a shot. To hell with the hardware store and Christine’s panties of iron.”

Paul snickered despite himself. George always knew exactly what to say. “That’s a god-awful hat,” he said. “Possibly the worst of them all.”

“I don’t look good in hats,” his friend said forlornly, pulling the lumpy abomination off his head and dropping it on the carpet. 

Paul leaned over and grabbed it, pulling it on his head over the beanie.

“Piss off,” George said, glaring at Paul’s head. Paul looked excellent in hats.

\------

It was almost seven in the evening when Paul’s dad got home from work. Mike was already back, being that Paul had had to pick him up from somebody-or-other’s house an hour ago. One of his football friends. Kurt or Kyle or Karl. Maybe it started with a K.

Paul lifted the casserole dish from the oven, his hands wrapped securely in towels, and set it down on the potholder waiting on the table. Jim was kicking off his shoes at the front door, the newspaper tucked securely under his arm and a cigarette already dangling from his fingers. Mike sat in front of the television with his feet up on the coffee table, and Jim pushed them onto the floor as he passed.

“Hallo, Paul. What’ve you made tonight?” Jim asked as he entered the kitchen.

“Casserole,” Paul said, poking his finger at the kitchen table, where the aforementioned casserole awaited them. “‘S just leftovers. Beans and potatoes and the like.”

“Good lad,” Jim said, bunging the newspaper onto the kitchen counter. It was roughly where John’s abandoned toast had sat, hours ago. Paul determinedly put it out of his mind and called Mike in to eat.

They sat in a circle around the round table, quite unlike knights. Mike was still in his uniform, and Jim had dark circles under his eyes; Paul could not stop thinking about John. It was perhaps a bad sign that George was right about him ‘moping about John.’ However, George was right about most things. It was a rather annoying habit of his.

“How was your day?” Mike asked their dad, as he was obligated to do, not because he particularly cared.

“Fine,” Jim grunted, shoveling another bite of the casserole into his mouth. He didn’t seem to be in a very talkative mood.

However, Paul never knew when to keep his mouth shut. It was a rather annoying habit of _his._ “John invited me to go on a road trip with him,” he said.

Jim and Mike both looked at him. “John who?” asked Jim.

 _The same John it’s been for the past two years._ “John Lennon.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed substantially. “Where’s he goin’?”

Paul shrugged and picked at his casserole, suddenly embarrassed. “Dunno. Looking for his da.”

“Hmmm,” Jim said. It wasn’t much of a response. “Has he got a place to stay? An’ I thought he didn’t have a car.” _This is why I need to learn to keep my mouth shut._

“He doesn’t have a car,” Paul murmured as if Jim wouldn’t catch on if he talked quietly enough. “He’s goin’ on a motorbike, and I dunno if he’s got any place to stay.”

Jim’s eyes practically bugged out of his head. “No. Absolutely not. You’re not going.”

Paul held his hands up defensively. “I didn’t say I was!”

“You always bring somethin’ up just cos,” Mike chimed in, speaking through a mouthful of food, “an’ then you actually want to go an’ do it. So you probably want to go on the trip with John, but won’t say it cos of Da.”

Paul glared daggers at his younger brother. The worst part was that he had to admit Mike was right. He hadn’t wanted to go when he had brought it up… but he wouldn’t have brought it up if he hadn’t wanted to go, deep down. Schrödinger's runaway.

Jim sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead, temporarily smoothing out the wrinkles there. “Paul, we need you at home this summer. An’ I don’t trust that Lennon boy.”

“I know,” said Paul.

“So no. ‘M sorry, but no.”

Paul nodded and did his best to pretend he was unbothered by this. He was evidently doing a poor job because Mike shoulder-checked him in that gentle way he did when he felt bad, and Jim kept shooting him guilty glances from behind the newspaper. Paul washed the dishes and headed to his room without even stopping to listen to the radio with Mike.

He kicked the door shut behind him and flopped facedown on his bed, feeling sorry for himself. It was downright pathetic how fast he had decided he wanted to go with John. Hell, he didn’t even know where John was going, or why, or when! But then again, this was a trend with Paul. He jumped headfirst with John, simply because it was John and, well, he needed to. Didn’t he?

Paul rolled over and stared out his window. The sun was almost set. He wondered what Christine was up to, and then he wondered what John was up to—probably packing for his great adventure. Paul’s eyes drifted to the phone on his bedside table. He should probably call and apologize… or…

_Or._

He could call and tell John he wanted to go with him. It probably wasn’t too late, unless John had already left, and Paul didn’t think he had. At least, he hoped he hadn’t. Paul reached out and snatched the phone off the hook, cradling it between his shoulder and his head. 

And he hesitated. John was probably still angry with him. But Paul wanted to go now, and maybe that would change things. So Paul punched in the number three for his speed-dial, which was John’s phone line.

He waited twenty seconds, nervously listening to the phone ring, and then John picked up.

“This is John.” His voice sounded scratchy. He’d probably just been smoking.

“I changed my mind,” Paul said breathlessly, blurting it out before the words could get stuck in his throat. “I want to go. But my da says that I can’t go… y’know, ‘cause… ‘cause it’s you I’m going with.”

There was a moment of silence on the line before John responded. His smile was evident in his tone of voice. His relief, and his triumph that Paul would go with him, even though Paul’s dad was dead set against it. “Ah, to hell with what old Jim thinks. Come on, then!”

Paul beamed and pulled the phone closer to his ear. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning, I thought. I was goin’ to leave today, but then the daft lad I asked to join me decided he wasn’t going to go.”

Paul tried not to giggle. It was John the Wretched again. “Well, I’m goin’ now. I’ll just hafta sneak out, I suppose.”

John gasped exaggeratedly into the phone. “Oh-ho-ho! We have a rebel on our hands now.”

Paul rolled his eyes, even though John couldn’t see him doing so, and stared out his window. The sun was setting on Liverpool. “You’re a bad influence, you know. Corrupting the youth.”

“Am only a year older,” John pointed out. Paul could hear him moving about his room, probably pacing back and forth on that horrible rug of Mimi’s.

“Yeah, but George has been equally corrupted,” Paul said. “If not more.”

“Are you jealous?” John asked mockingly, and Paul winced as John blew into his harmonica, nearly deafening him over the phone.

“You wish,” Paul said. “What should I bring?”

“Clothes,” said John, master of the obvious. “Toothbrush an’ shampoo an’ shite. Your favorite records.” He paused and then added: “No cash. I’m payin’.”

Paul decided to bring his wallet anyway. Just in case they got lost and ended up in Scotland or something. It was always a possibility with John. “Alright. What time am I meetin’ you? An’ where?”

“Bus station at five tomorrow morning,” John said immediately.

“That was fast,” Paul responded, scanning his face in the mirror above his dresser. His hair was rather misshapen from George’s hats.

“Have been planning for a while,” John muttered. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Macca. Make sure you aren't followed.” Paul could practically see his eyebrows wiggling.

“See you, Johnny,” Paul said and listened to John hang up the phone. And then Paul realized he could still hear breathing. His heart jumped into his throat, and then he dropped the phone and burst out of his bedroom. He hoped it was Mike. God, if it were his dad, he’d never see the outdoors again. He’d be so grounded he’d have to quit his job _and_ the band.

Paul careened down the hallway and into Mike’s room, just in time to watch Mike hang up the phone, his eyes wide and a shit-eating grin on his face. “Leaving soon, then?” Mike asked.

Irrational Paul took a long moment to consider wringing Mike’s neck.

“What do you want, Mike?” Paul asked, resigning himself to his fate. “Money? My radio?” He allowed himself a silent moment of heartbreak at the thought of losing his radio.

“Nah,” Mike said, leaning back in his desk chair. “If this is a bribe, I want your room.”

“My room,” Paul said incredulously. He had the bigger of the two, with more natural light and better acoustics. Mike’s room was at the back of the house and didn’t get any direct sunlight during the day. It had a large brown stain on the carpet from when Mike’s buddy (named either Tom or Tim, this one was) had spilled Coca-Cola on it. It had a drafty window, and the wallpaper was peeling in three places, as opposed to Paul’s room, where it was only peeling in one.

But then he thought of John, waggling his eyebrows and blowing his harmonica straight into Paul’s ear, and he steeled himself to do what he had to.

“Okay,” Paul said, biting the inside of his cheek. “Okay, fine. But you can’t have any of my stuff, and you have to wait ‘til I’m back.”

“Right,” said Mike. “An’ when will that be?”

“I dunno. Soon, hopefully.”

“Yeah, because Da will blow a gasket if he doesn’t know where you are for a month.”

Paul sucked in a deep breath and let it out, ignoring the bemused look on Mike’s face. “But you won’t tell him if I give you my room?”

“Nah,” said Mike.

“Okay,” said Paul, and he went back to his room.

He was still jumpy, and now even more so, knowing that Mike knew. Paul shoved his desk chair up under the door handle and packed quickly, shoving his wallet and his clothes and his toiletries into a duffel bag before he could panic more. A few records: R.E.M. and Oasis and Red Hot Chili Peppers. An old Talking Heads record, stolen from George.

The duffel bag was tucked underneath his bed, ready for tomorrow morning, and he sat on the edge of his bed with a million thoughts running through his head.

Paul would have to call his dad once he was on the road and tell him where he was. Of course, when Paul didn’t appear for breakfast in the morning, Jim would know that he had snuck out with John. But it was the decent thing to do because he loved his dad, and Responsible Paul did still have a _little_ bit of pull over him. Responsible Paul also wanted to call the hardware store and let them know he wouldn’t be coming in again, but Irrational Paul was telling him to call in sick until he didn’t have sick leave anymore. Not that he had much in the first place, but he wouldn’t mind getting paid for his days off.

He should also call George and let him know, but he had the strange feeling that George already knew. Because George was always right.

Paul stripped off his jeans in slow motion and laid back in bed. He fixed his eyes on his ceiling. He wondered where they would be going first, and what it was like to ride a motorbike, and whether or not most bed-and-breakfasts had vegetarian options.

 _It’s going to be a long night,_ he realized, listening to the clock tick.


	2. Lancaster, Or: And So It Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His dad was going to kill him, if he didn't die as a result of a motorbike crash first._
> 
> Paul and John head out on their great adventure... starting in Lancaster, of all places. Bruising, milkshakes, an excessive amount of drinking, and R.E.M. ensue.

“My dad is goin’ to shit his pants,” said Paul. “ _I_ am goin’ to shit my pants.”

John was sitting atop a spectacularly large motorbike, a wolfish grin on his face. It was a miracle that he had even managed to get on it. Paul thought he might need a stepstool.

“I got it from a foreigner at the docks,” John said, a note of pride in his voice as he ran his fingertips over the rubbery handlebars. The bike’s black paint glinted in the rising sun. “He called it a _Honda CB400._ It’s Japanese.”

Paul might have been endeared by this if he wasn’t shaking in his trainers. John hadn’t even turned on the engine yet and Paul was still fighting the urge to turn on his heel and head back home right away. The thing was just… so dangerous. He wondered if they made pads for motorbikes, like those you would wear if you were skateboarding. An image flashed through his mind of John in a sumo wrestler’s suit, and he almost smiled.

John was looking at him with a surprising softness. “Are you scared?” he asked.

He didn’t look at John, wrapping his arms around himself self-consciously. “No.”

“Come ‘ere,” John said, patting the seat behind him. “It’s not that bad, I promise. All you have to do is hold onto the back and lean with the bike when we turn.” He smiled reassuringly at Paul, who frowned in response.

“Have you got a helmet?” _If I can’t wear a sumo wrestler’s suit, there’d better be a helmet._

John nodded and beckoned Paul forward, attempting to get at his bag, which Paul was carrying on his back. Paul turned around obediently and listened to John rustling through the bag, then blinked in surprise when John reached up and shoved a motorbike helmet onto Paul’s head.

“You have to wear one too,” Paul said, and John sighed.

“I haven’t got one,” John responded. “You’re wearin’ mine. And you’re _not_ giving it back, so jus’... get on already.” He turned to face forward and scrunched up his eyebrows.

Paul couldn’t help but smile. Biting the inside of his cheek, he finally gathered his nerve and clumsily swung his left leg over the motorbike, scooting backward until he was comfortably situated on the back seat of the bike. He could have made great use of a stepstool. John looked at him in the rearview mirror and smiled, and Paul returned it, feeling a bit more confident about this whole motorbike business.

Then John put the key in the ignition and started it, and the bike did not rumble to life so much as it suddenly burst into life, hissing, and kicking and spitting.

Paul let out an unbecoming yelp and shot forward in his seat until he was in John’s seat, arms wrapped around his friend’s waist and fingers clutched in his leather jacket. He did his best not to whimper as John gently patted the back of his hand, stifling a laugh.

“Are you okay?” John had to shout to be heard over the roar of the engine.

Paul pressed his face between John’s shoulder blades and nodded.

John kept talking as he guided the motorbike out of the parking lot, saying something about M58 and M6 and “it’s all goin’ to be okay, Macca, I know how to drive this thing, jus’ relax.” Paul was hardly listening. His dad was going to kill him; if he didn’t die as a result of a motorbike crash first. An image of his brain sprayed out across the pavement flashed through his head, but he was quickly reassured by the weight of the helmet on his head. However, this only made it worse, considering that now he was picturing _John’s_ brain on the pavement like a gory Jackson Pollock painting. Paul squeezed his eyes shut and decided it was better not to picture things.

“First stop’s Lancaster,” John told him when they got to a red light. He sounded a bit choked. Probably because Paul, determined to become an anaconda impersonator, had not let up on his ribcage. “It won’t be long, I promise.”

Paul hummed in response, reminding himself of George. God, he was going to _kill_ George. That rat bastard would probably love this. He raised his head, ever-so-slightly, just enough to peek over John’s shoulder… it was really too bad that the bike was terrifying because John looked positively delighted to see his face, beaming at him in the rearview mirror. But then the light changed, and the bike moved again, so Paul buried himself between John’s shoulders and pretended he wasn’t afraid every time there was a pebble underneath their tires.

He was so wholly exhausted that he nearly drifted off a few times throughout their hour-long ride to Lancaster. Then the bike would make a strange noise, or John would shift in front of him, and Paul would snap out of it and tighten his grip. John would have bruises after this.

\------

Paul decided not to kill George after he had gotten a good six hours of sleep. As soon as John had fit the key into the lock of the motel door, Paul had promptly collapsed on their shared bed and fallen asleep, still in his shoes and jacket. He woke up with his shoes off and the blinds closed so that the sun wasn’t in his face. John was sitting in the dinky motel armchair, a dog-eared copy of _The Hobbit_ in his hands. He glanced up at Paul and back at the book.

“Got your beauty sleep, then?”

Paul rolled his eyes and swung his legs off the side of the bed, stretching his arms up over his head. “Yeah, but Lord knows I don’t need it,” he said, shooting his best smile at John and fluttering his eyelashes mockingly. “The birds won’t be able to control themselves around me if I get any more handsome.”

John scoffed. “More like the _lads_ won’t. You look like a bird yourself.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response. It was best not to give John the satisfaction. Paul stood up and ambled into the bathroom, patting down his hair and making a face at his reflection. “Where have we got to go, then?” he called to John, changing the subject.

“Dunno,” John said from the other room. “All I know is that Julia told me once he went to Lancaster after Blackpool.”

Paul watched his reflection wince at the mention of Julia. It had only been a year or so since her death, and he knew John was still in mourning. He wondered if John was doing this to get away from all the places In Liverpool where he had just begun to know his mother.

John peeked around the corner of the bathroom door, automatically making one of his spaz faces in the mirror when he saw his reflection. Paul forced a smile. “Are we goin’ then?”

“Yeah, hold on,” Paul said and went to put his shoes back on.

It had quickly become apparent that John had no idea where they were going and did not even have a guess. When they had gotten out onto the pavement, John had looked around a bit before picking a direction and heading off. So now they had spent two hours poking their heads into busy shops and restaurants and pubs (Paul awkwardly avoided eye contact with the day drunks), hoping a business owner would recognize the surname Lennon.

After the fourth pub of the day, Paul insisted that they stop and take a break. John spotted an ice-cream parlor and they ordered without hesitation --banana milkshake for Paul, two scoops of cookie dough for John-- then sat down at one of the booths.

“It’s a shame that they charge for that,” John said, glaring at Paul’s milkshake, “considerin’ that it’s jus’ blended baby food.”

Paul sucked at his straw happily. “I don’t make you drink it, do I?”

“You sound like Mimi,” John complained.

“Oh, she would be just delighted to hear that.”

They sat and watched customers file in and out of the shop, mostly schoolgirls and elderly couples, ordering various chocolate ice creams and only occasionally shooting glances in John and Paul’s direction. A rather large group of schoolgirls then came in, about Paul’s age, maybe a bit younger. Unlike the others, they were openly ogling him, giggling as they ordered their sundaes and milkshakes.

This could only mean that Paul was going to outrageously flirt with one of the girls.

Paul leaned back on his stool and tried to catch a girl looking at him. Eventually, he did: a curly-haired redhead with a nice figure, who seemed more confident than the other girls around her. They were all rather plain.

He winked. It was a very familiar action. The redhead grinned and waggled her fingers at him, causing her friends to giggle and blush. John was scooping ice cream into his mouth and muttering something about banana flavor putting girls off kissing.

The redhead came over after she had ordered, her gaggle of friends tagging along behind her. She was clearly the leader of the group. _Rather like John,_ Paul supposed.

“Hey there, mister,” she said.

“Hello, little lady,” Paul said. John snorted loudly. Paul’s eyes darted to him, and he quickly tried to cover it with a cough, like he had just choked on his ice cream. The girl narrowed her eyes at him and he wheezed harder in response. _Dear God, John._

“What’s your name? Haven’t seen you ‘round these parts before,” the girl said, putting her hands on her curvy hips. One of her more attractive friends was now gazing at John, but he wasn’t sure if that was because she was trying to get his attention or because he was fake-choking on ice cream. It was very convincing fake-choking.

“Paul. It’s a pleasure.”

“I’m Lydia,” the girl said, offering her delicate hand for a shake. Paul, ever the dramatic, took it in both of his and held it there.

“Glad to meet you,” Paul said, looking up at her with his widest eyes. “I bet you’re the prettiest lass in all of Lancaster.”

She cocked an eyebrow, not impressed.

“That’s like being the tallest dwarf,” John chimed in, and Paul kicked him sharply underneath the table. John cursed. Paul was sort of impressed with himself, hitting his target without even taking his eyes off the girl.

Lydia had now turned her dark eyes on John. Batting her long eyelashes at him and ignoring his insult, she said: “And who might you be?”

“No thanks. Stick with our Paul, love,” he said.

There was a short but tense stare-off between the two. It was obvious that Lydia was not used to being rejected, much less immediately written off, as John had just done. Paul shifted uncomfortably in his seat, realized he was still holding Lydia’s hand, and then let go of it. John looked at Paul before Lydia did.

Lydia’s frown creased her pretty face. It made her look much more human. She turned back to Paul and placed a hand on his arm; her glossy nails were painted the same color as her skin. “How long are you in town, Paul?”

“Oh, I’m not sure,” Paul said, glancing at John. “We’re not sure yet.”

“Do you know anybody called Lennon?” John cut in.

Lydia shot a dangerous look in John’s direction and answered the question as though Paul had asked it. “No, I don’t think so. But my mum owns a pub, just down the block. She knows _everybody_ that passes through this part of town.” She winked, running her hand over Paul’s forearm. “And she doesn’t ask for identification or nothing. It’s a real good time… you should come by tonight.”

Paul caught John’s eye. He narrowed his eyes and John rubbed at his nose, then raised both eyebrows. Paul bit his lower lip.

It was one of their faster nonverbal communications. Paul’s eye-narrowing was simply asking if they should go, while John’s rubbing of the nose meant ‘I don’t really fancy the idea.’ Following it with the eyebrows meant that they should go nonetheless since there was the possibility of finding out more information about Alf.

This was where it got confusing because John was extremely myopic. Therefore, his ‘meaningful eye contact’ with Paul was only meaningful to Paul, since John was just squinting. Paul bit his lip to mean that he didn’t think they should bother; John interpreted this to mean that he agreed with John that they should go.

At the same time Paul said “I don’t know if we can swing it, sorry, love,” John said, “we’ll be there.”

John’s look now read _are you fucking kidding me?_

Lydia had raised her eyebrow again, looking even more unimpressed than before. Paul was starting to think he was losing his charm. “Y’know, you don’t have to come _together,_ ” she said with a pointed look at John. “If your friend’s behavior is what you’re worried about.”

“No, no,” he responded. “We’ll both be there. I think he can behave himself for one evening.”

John now looked so offended that Paul couldn’t help but snicker.

Lydia, on the other hand, looked triumphant. “1 Middle Street,” she said. “Nine o’clock. Be there or be square.” With that, she beckoned to her entourage and strutted out of the parlor. She hadn’t even touched the ice cream she had ordered.

“ _Be there or be square,_ ” John repeated incredulously, and Paul burst out laughing.

\------

They ended up being square. At least half an hour square.

However, Lydia didn’t seem to mind, greeting Paul with a prim kiss on the cheek and John with a withering, challenging look. John returned it with equal vigor and trailed after Paul as he was led to the bar. Once Paul had been outfitted with a pint of odd, vinegar-scented beer (John had had to order his own _and_ cough up identification), he was paraded around the pub and introduced to various teenage girls… and then to the woman he had come here for.

Lydia’s mother did not resemble her daughter in any way, shape, or form. She was the kind of person John would mercilessly mock in one of his cartoons or poems, with a snaggletooth, terrible, hunched posture, and bulging eyes that seemed too big for their sockets. She was a living caricature.

At least John was still standing at the bar, sniffing at his beer with an air of suspicion. Paul didn’t think they would be able to ask Lydia’s mother for help if John broke out one of his spaz acts.

“Mum, this is Paul,” Lydia told her mother. “He’s in town for a day or two.”

The woman looked up at him with a scowl. “And?”

Yes, Paul was definitely losing his charm. “It’s nice to meet you,” Paul said, forcing a smile. “You have a lovely pub.”

Lydia’s mother only stared at him.

“You’re being _rude,_ ” Lydia whispered to her mother, elbowing the woman in a remarkably lacking display of subtlety. Paul glanced back at the bar. John was nodding along to whatever some girl was saying to him, looking very bored. Paul thought he might take boredom over the discomfort he was currently experiencing.

“Whaddaya want?” croaked the woman.

Paul turned back to her, looking around like there might have been somebody else she was addressing.

“Whaddaya want?” repeated Lydia’s mother. “Lydia said you had a question for me. About somebody or other who’d come through the pub.”

“Oh,” said Paul. “Right. My friend is looking for his da. Somebody called Alf Lennon?”

The woman’s eyes seemed to bulge even further out of her head. “Alf Lennon?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Paul sighed. He was starting to get annoyed. Why did this entire conversation require repeating every sentence?

“I know him,” said Lydia’s mother. “He used to come into my pub every Thursday night an’ drink me out of house an’ home.”

Paul nodded and privately hoped that Alf had at least cleaned up his act enough that John wouldn’t have a drunk for a father.

“Last I heard he went off with one of those no-good business partners of his,” continued Lydia’s mother. She was slowly lowering herself onto one of the nearby chairs, her body seeming to crumple over the table what with that posture of hers. “Off to Manchester. He was buying a restaurant or something of the sort.”

“Thank you,” Paul said hurriedly. John had caught sight of Paul and his eyebrows had raised nearly enough to touch the heavens. “Thank you very much. He’ll be pleased to hear that.”

The woman turned her head to peer at Paul through those oversized eyes. “Good luck,” she said. “He’s a real piece of work, that one.”

Paul glanced over his shoulder at John, who was looking right back at him. “I think he knows.”

\------

“I jus’ think that, like, I put on a persona for the public,” John said, his slurred words loud even in the noisiness of the motel room. John’s portable record player was sitting on the bedside table, playing one of Paul’s R.E.M. records. He couldn’t remember which one. Paul was watching it spin, his eyelids feeling heavy. “Y’know? I, jus’, I’m not… I’ve not gotta be the jokester an’ get all the attention. ‘S just how I _act._ ”

“Well, I think you act… gear. Fab,” said Paul, bumping his head lightly against the wooden television stand. They were sitting on the floor of the motel room. He was doing his best not to think about when the carpet was last cleaned.

John shook his head, the neck of the wine bottle clutched tightly in his fist, a cigarette dangling out of his free hand. “You think that ‘cos you _know_ me.” He reached out and patted Paul’s knee in a gesture that was probably supposed to be friendly but was really just dropping ash on Paul’s jeans. “I don’t hafta be fake around you,” he said earnestly.

Paul’s head lolled toward John. “But you never open up,” he said. “I want… I wanna help you, but you’re all…” Paul waved his hands around in the air vaguely. “You’re all _shy._ ”

His friend frowned and Paul fought the urge to reach out and smooth the creases between his eyebrows. “That’s not the right word,” John said. “I’m not _shy,_ I’m…” He sighed in frustration. “What’s the right word? I’m just…”

“Wretched,” Paul offered.

“Am surprised you even know that word,” John said. “Umm… _emotionally hindered._ ” He hiccupped.

Paul made grabby hands for the wine bottle and John passed it over. Paul tipped his head and took a long drink, gulping down the cheap red wine eagerly. He passed it back to John and wiped his mouth, sighing with contentment. _Orange Crush_ was playing now, one of Paul’s favorites, even though John thought the lyrics were juvenile. He watched John make a face and take another swig from the bottle, nearly the last of it.

He didn’t know exactly how they had gotten here. After he had spoken to Lydia’s mother ( _Gretchen,_ her name was _Gertrude_ ), Lydia had tired of him and he had wound his way back to the bar, where he told John what she had said. John’s face had lit up, and then they had shared a couple more beers in celebration… and then they had bought a bottle of wine, or maybe the shots had come before that. The important thing was that they had consumed a large amount of alcohol over the last two hours, and now John was talking about his feelings and Paul couldn’t remember the name of his own R.E.M. record.

“I’m emotionally hindered,” John announced, “‘cos my da left and my mum died.”

Paul’s head lolled around to look at John, seemingly of its own accord. He was glad _somebody_ still had control of his body. “You should talk about it then.”

He hiccupped. “I am. Am talking about it right now.” John paused, presumably for dramatic effect, then hiccupped once more. “He _abandoned_ me. An’ she died before I’d even really gotten to know her.”

Paul didn’t say anything, just nodded encouragingly. Even through the haze of alcohol, he still knew this was unusual for John. And John was like a cat: if you made any movements that were too sudden or enthusiastic, he would run away and close himself off. So Paul patiently waited for him to go on, watching John smoke his cigarette even though the motel was no-smoking.

“‘M just so _angry_ sometimes,” he said. “She never wanted to be a mum. I was jus’ the tes’ subject, an’ then she went’ off an’ had her _real_ children an’ her _real_ family, an’ I was just the accident when she was young an’ dumb.”

The neck of the wine bottle was clasped too tight in John’s fist, and he was raining ash and sparks on the floor. His eyes were red.

“Mimi only wanted me ‘cos she didn’t want my da to have me,” John added quietly. “An’ he abandoned me, never tried to get in contact or anythin’. Julia showed back up when it was convenient and then _died._ ”

“Yeah,” Paul whispered, tilting his head back. He watched John’s eyes drift to the line of his exposed throat. His mouth hung open. It was unsettling, the way he was looking.

Then again, the entire conversation was unsettling. What he had been able to push aside at noon that day could not be pushed away at midnight. Paul could not stop thinking of Julia, more specifically, her funeral.

He didn’t know if John knew that he went. Paul had worn his best suit and sat in the very back of the pews, watching John and his miserable family cling to each other and cry. The only one who did not cry was John, lying his head on his cousin Leila’s lap and staring forward blankly. His eyes were rimmed in red and shadowed by purple bags, but he did not cry in public. Paul did not cry either, not until he went to George’s house afterward and wept on a bewildered George’s shoulder. They had not been close then, he and George. But how could he cry to John, when John could not cry himself?

Those eyes were equally red now, and they were focused on Paul’s neck. There was a prickling, hot feeling under Paul’s skin, something trying to break through the skin. He didn’t move. He was watching John watch him and he was waiting for that something to break through.

“I thought I saw him at the funeral,” John said, almost a whisper.

Paul finally tilted his head forward. John’s gaze drifted up to meet his. There were tears in his eyes and Paul felt an overwhelming surge of sympathy for him.

“He didn’t even say hello. No ‘hey son, how’ve you been, sorry about yer mum kickin’ the bucket,’” John laughed bitterly. He drank the last of the wine in one gulp.

A good amount of it rolled down his chin; it was a testament to how drunk John was that he had nearly missed his mouth completely. On instinct, Paul reached out and ran his thumb over John’s chin, fingertips light on the back of his jaw.

He was going to take his hand back and then John leaned into the touch. Paul was cupping John’s face in his hand and they were staring at each other and John set the wine bottle down.

John’s hand slowly reached up and covered Paul’s. He turned his face into Paul’s palm and closed his eyes, and Paul couldn’t take his eyes off John. There was a long moment of silence, nothing but the blurry sound of R.E.M. clattering around on their instruments.

“I jus’ wanted him to know me,” John murmured against Paul’s skin. “To give a damn about me, an’ what I’d been doin’ since he left.”

Paul nodded silently and allowed himself to trace John’s cheekbone with his thumb. John opened his eyes and squeezed Paul’s hand once, then gently removed it from his face. Paul’s hand, now resting in his lap, felt like it was on fire.

“We’ll find him, John,” Paul said, his throat feeling clogged. “I promise.”

John studied him, eyes flitting over his face and head tilted slightly. He seemed to be looking for something. “I know we will,” he said.

Paul nodded again and stared down at his feet. It was almost painful to look John in the eye.

The moment was over when John got up to change the record to one of his old Smiths albums that Paul hated so much. He nobly kept his mouth shut about it.

\------

John was much worse at keeping his mouth shut. They woke up early in the morning, still on the floor of the hotel room. “My head feels like someone’s stompin’ on it,” he groaned.

Paul shared the sentiment, but could only make an incoherent, pained noise in response, given that John was practically yelling. He was lying face-down in front of the television stand, right where he had been sitting the previous night, in the same sweaty clothes and with the foul taste of beer in his mouth. John had already managed to drag himself off to the bathroom, leaving behind an empty wine bottle with two cigarette butts in it. Both John’s.

He rolled onto his back, feeling rather like a beached whale, and squinted at the clock. Maybe he was the nearsighted one, not John. It was almost eight.

Paul stared up at the ceiling and listened to the shower start, turning the conversation from the previous night ( _can it be called that if it was at midnight?_ ) over in his mind. 

_“I just wanted him to know me.”_

To know John was to love him, and Paul ached to think that John did not feel that from either of his parents. That John thought of himself as ‘emotionally hindered,’ that he could not open up to Paul or anybody else unless he was drunk. He wondered if John would have let him hold his face like that if he had been sober.

It had felt important. Both the conversation and the moment within it: John letting himself touch and be touched. John never seemed to touch anybody _meaningfully._ He punched strangers in pubs and begrudgingly accepted kisses from his aunts and fucked random girls without ever even holding their hands. But he had, albeit drunkenly, let Paul hold his face in his hand; he had talked to him about Julia and Alf and the hurt they had caused him.

He wondered if they were allowed to talk about it now, in the light of day.

John came out of the bathroom, fully dressed, and with his hair dripping wet. “Breakfast?” John asked, dropping his wet towel on Paul’s chest.

Paul winced as the towel hit him and hurled it back in John’s direction, missing by a pathetic distance. “If you’re paying.”

“I pay for everythin’ around here,” John muttered. “My lad won’t get off his lazy arse and get a job.”

Paul scoffed. “I _had_ a job, an’ then some daft sod had me go on holiday with him an’ I lost it.”

“Did you really?”

He shook his head, feeling a bit guilty and smiling sheepishly. “I called in sick yesterday. They’ll probably fire me today.”

John waggled his eyebrows. “I _am_ corrupting you.”

Paul rolled his eyes in response, once again feeling rather like George ( _was it possible to be possessed by someone when you were merely absent from them?_ ) and shuffled John out the door. He was quite hungry now that he thought about it.

\------

“Ma, you better shut up before I put your face in your _goddamn eggs!_ ”

Paul was making a noble effort not to laugh, hiding his face in his cup of tea. John’s eyes were as big as saucers, and they kept exchanging glances, looking between each other and the absolutely batshit family sitting in the booth across from them. 

It consisted of a very loud teenage boy, probably only thirteen or fourteen, who was currently screaming at his mother; she looked like every middle-aged mom in every American teen comedy. There was also a chubby baby sitting on the floor beside the booth, picking crumbs off the ground and eating them. The father, who was a hulk of a man, had hidden his face behind a newspaper five minutes prior and looked remarkably unconcerned. Either that, or he was ashamed to be seen with the terror that was his son.

“I’ve told you not to talk to me like that, Dave,” the boy’s mother replied.

“I wouldn’t talk to you at all if I had the pick,” Dave said sullenly. It struck Paul as a very John response, and he smiled into his mug; John smirked in a way that indicated he was thinking the same thing. He was probably proud of the little shit.

“Watch your mouth, son,” the father said from behind the newspaper. “Don’t talk to your mother that way.”

“Alright, I’ll talk to _you_ that way,” snapped Dave. “Shut up, Da, or I’ll put _your_ face in your goddamn eggs.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Paul raised an eyebrow at John, who was shoveling half-cold bacon into his mouth. He wasn’t necessarily _hoping_ to witness a physical confrontation between the Abominable Snowman and his Lennonesque son, but it would make for an excellent story for John to tell later, impersonating each member of the family while George and Pete pretended they didn’t think it was funny. Then John would moan about how Paul was the only one who appreciated him and his sense of humor, and…

“What the _fuck,_ Da!”

Paul and John’s eyes simultaneously snapped up to the booth opposite them. Dave, the poor bastard, had been thrown over his dad’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes (well, a sack of potatoes with purple platform sneakers). He was screeching like a wet cat.

“Wait-- no, Da, _put me down!_ You’re such an arsehole, I hate you so much, jus’-- _Da!_ Okay, okay, I’m sorry… _put me down already, you fat fuck!_ ”

That was when John lost it, snorting bits of biscuit all over the table as he burst out laughing. Paul immediately followed suit, nearly inhaling his hot tea, but he was careful to put it down out of John’s nose’s range.

Paul looked over to the family’s booth, and he really should have felt guilty. The boy was still hanging over his father’s shoulder, blushing; his face would have been the color of a tomato if it wasn’t for the fact that all the blood was rushing to his head anyway, making him more of a purple to match his shoes. The mother looked mortified.

He really should have felt guilty but then he saw the baby. The baby was crawling insistently toward Dave and his father, and neither noticed the approach. It was like watching a horror movie in slow motion. The baby stood up, toddling one more step toward the meaty legs of its father. Dave’s face was getting darker and darker, and he had finally gone silent, although his father was saying something about ‘respecting your parents’ and ‘making a scene in public,’ and then the baby closed its tiny mouth around the very tip of Dave’s little finger and he let out a _scream_ that could’ve raised every last hair on Paul’s arms if he wasn’t so busy laughing until his stomach was sore.

“Christ,” John finally choked out after a minute or two. The family had bundled themselves away, Dave still kicking and screaming, the rest of the family suitably embarrassed. “D’you think he’s always like that?”

“Reminds me a bit of you,” Paul said, his eyes watering.

John looked bewildered for a moment and then cracked up again. “But he reminds me of _you._ ”

“No way! Did you hear that bit about his mum?”

“Yeah, an’ that’s something you would definitely say.”

“That’s something _you_ would say,” Paul retorted.

John shook his head. “I’d talk to my mum.”

Paul paused and said: “So would I.”

They looked at each other for a moment and seemed to reach an unspoken agreement: they would not talk about it today. _Maybe another time,_ Paul thought, but John did not want to continue their conversation from last night and Paul was going to have to be okay with that.

“I hope I can talk to my dad like that, though,” John said quietly. He stirred his tea with a finger, making Paul grimace. “One day.”

“Yeah, one day. Soon,” Paul said. “I promise.” He couldn’t resist the urge to repeat it, even if it was an echo from last night’s conversation and they were not talking about it today.

He was expecting John’s scrutiny this time, and he held his head up and met his gaze.

“Soon,” John agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you for reading, and thank you all so much for your comments on the first chapter... I read them all and they inspired me to keep going, so I really appreciate it. Again, I am always open to constructive criticism, so let me know what you think and if there's anything I could do to improve, or if there's something you want to see more of. I'm going to try and post a new chapter every Friday, but school is about to start back up for me and I may be a tad inconsistent.
> 
> The R.E.M. album they listen to is called Green, and it's one of my personal favorites. I definitely recommend you check it out!
> 
> Thank you to @mossintheconcrete for betaing this fic.  
> My mishmash of a Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/flightofthebluealiens


	3. Manchester, Or: Something With A S

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Paul wasn’t a poof. He couldn’t be. So what was wrong with him?_
> 
> _The door to the landlord's office flew open._
> 
> John and Paul continue to Sherlock Holmes-their way to Alf Lennon, this time in Manchester. Along the way, they encounter Ferris Bueller, an enormous hammer, and far too many cigarettes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm including a note at the beginning to let you know that there is some internalized homophobia throughout this entire chapter, including some offensive and homophobic language. Please take care.

Paul was standing on a glittery blue float, surrounded by miniature Christmas trees, women in flowery skirts, and American flags. When he squinted up, he was nearly blinded as the sunlight reflecting off the skyscrapers shot straight into his eyes. There was an incredibly disjointed feeling in his body; almost like his feet were separate from his legs.

The sudden weight of the microphone in his hand surprised him, and he looked out at the crowd, bewildered, as though one of them had willed the mic into his palm.

“You’re crazy!” someone shouted, and his eyes swung toward the voice. It was John, wearing a red jersey… and George beside him, in a white fringed jacket that looked like a lass’s. Their hair was all wrong too. Paul looked down at himself and recognized his vest, but it seemed _off_ still, and he was going to get down from the float and go to his friends but his feet wouldn’t let him.

Paul felt a dim sense of panic as he realized that he couldn’t move at all.

But then the opening bars of _Twist and Shout_ played: an old Isley Brothers tune that his dad loved, and Paul’s feet moved of their own accord. In fact, his whole body did, his hand moving the mic to his face as he mouthed along with the lyrics. He was swaying and his arms were swinging, but he couldn’t stop it or do anything else, and Paul wondered how he had gotten here.

There was a fucking _marching band_ in front of him, all dressed in red and white. They were playing along with the song, and Paul was still swaying his hips and lip-synching. His skin felt like it was stretched too tight across his skin, and he blanched when he looked over at John and George. George had wrapped his arms around John, and they were both grinning, watching him prance around the float. The women were dancing behind him, and the people in the street were genuinely _twisting_ and screaming along… it was exhilarating. Nothing like playing in the band with John and George. Paul wondered if they were okay with this solo performance.

He grew less panicked as the song went on, allowing his body to do what it wanted. The parade had stopped dead in its tracks and Paul was everywhere; dancing face-to-face with one of the leggy blondes beside him, stomping his way across the front of the float. He couldn’t help but laugh when he noticed John and George again. They were nearly hidden by the crowd now, but John was dancing along too, almost disco moves. _Wrong era, John._ George was doing something that could barely be qualified as _dancing_ and was really just shifting from foot to foot.

God, there were so many people surrounding him. As far as the eye could see, really. He had somehow made his way up onto the pedestal on top of the float, and the women were encircling him, twirling around. People doing synchronized dances on the nearby steps, and crowds shouting along to the song… which was almost over, and John had fought his way up to the float. Paul sank to his knees and leaned as far back as he could and spun in a circle as he jumped up; shook his head hard enough to cause dizziness; panted and listened to the cheers as the women lifted their skirts. And then he fell straight back into the arms of the women, and they all kissed him… he waved to the crowds and gave his best smile before climbing off the side of the float and letting John escort him to George. He was sweaty and exhausted, but he could control his limbs now and beamed at George, who was wearing his usual look of subtle amusement.

“You should probably wake up now,” said George.

And so he did, drenched in sweat, gasping as a weight flopped onto the bed beside him. His arms flew out to his sides, and he felt his left hand collide with something warm.

“Ow! Fuck!” exclaimed John. He reached over Paul and pulled the lamp’s chain. Dim yellow light filled the room, revealing a rather disgruntled-looking John, who was wearing his jacket over his pajamas. There was no red jersey, and certainly no short, clean haircut.

“Sorry,” said Paul, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. “You freaked me out a bit.”

“What, bad dream?” John asked, sounding somewhere between mocking and genuinely concerned. He was wearing his glasses for once, and he didn’t have to squint to look at Paul, but he did anyway. John’s squinting always made him seem suspicious and possibly aggressive.

Paul shrugged. It wasn’t necessarily _bad,_ just… strange. And then he remembered something. “You know that movie _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off?_ ”

“Yeah,” said John. “Where’re you goin’ with this?”

“I think I jus’ lived it. Like, I was Ferris, an’ you were Cameron, an’ George was… what’s the girlfriend’s name again?”

John snorted. “I don’t remember. He’d jus’ love that, though.”

“It was the _Twist and Shout_ bit.”

“Lucky you,” said John, “gettin’ all those people dancin’ and shite.”

Paul quirked an eyebrow. “So you’re familiar with it?”

“No,” John said quickly. “That movie’s daft.”

“Is it daft like _Breakfast Club_ was daft or is it daft like _The Outsiders,_ where you watched it six times in a week?”

John gave his chest a solid shove and Paul grabbed hold of his wrist, pulling John forward. He attempted to wrap his arm around John’s waist and pin him down, but John was too fast for him and managed to pin Paul down by his wrists first. Leering above him, John held Paul’s wrists with one hand and dove for Paul’s chest with his other hand, fingers light over his ribcage. Paul giggled helplessly, desperately trying to get his wrists free and swat John away, but they were nearly equals in strength and he was stuck.

As a last resort, Paul kicked away the covers from his feet and quickly wrapped one of his legs around John’s waist, flipping them over with a little difficulty considering he was being mercilessly tickled. Legs wrapped around John’s thighs, he yanked his wrists free, then manhandled John toward the edge of the bed until his friend’s head and shoulders were hanging off the side.

“Say uncle,” said Paul.

“Never,” John spat back, grinning up at Paul despite his precarious position on the edge of the mattress.

“Say it,” Paul insisted, pushing John further over the edge until John was practically kept up only by Paul’s weight on his legs.

John just smiled.

Paul sighed and hauled John back onto the bed.

“You never actually let me fall,” John said, fondness in his voice. “Soft lad.”

Paul sniffed. “Already have faulty eyes. It’d be a shame to give you brain damage too.” 

John rolled said faulty eyes and Paul reached out to tap the side of his glasses frames. “Speaking of, why’ve you got these on? I thought you were too cool for glasses.”

If Paul didn’t know any better, he would’ve sworn that John flushed. He dug around in his jacket pocket and produced a small piece of paper, which he held out to Paul. “Had to find this.”

Paul took the paper and looked at it, eyebrows furrowed. Mr. Alf Lennon of Lennon & Hammond Realty, part-time real estate agent, part-time “small business investor” ( _whatever_ that _meant_ ), 16 Park Rd Worsley… _wait._

“Oh my god,” said Paul. “We’ve got an address!” He looked up and met John’s eyes.

John was grinning brilliantly and Paul felt a surge of affection deep in his gut. “I found it at the deli a few streets down,” he said proudly. “In one of those jars, y’know, that they put out for all the business owners? ‘ _Put your business card in and you’ll get free lunches_ ’ or whatever.”

Paul paused, looking between the card and John. “Hang on. How many delis did you have to go to before you found this one? And why were you doin’ it at--” --he glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table-- “--four in the mornin’?”

He shrugged. “No customers to give me funny looks while I was rootin’ through the jars.”

“You’re daft,” Paul said fondly. “I bet those shop owners hate you.”

“Am I daft like _Breakfast Club_ or like _The Outsiders_?” John mused.

“So you admit there’s a difference!”

John grabbed hold of the front of Paul’s shirt, narrowing his eyes comically. “Tell anyone and I’ll kill you dead, Macca,” he stage-whispered.

“Not if I kill you first,” Paul said cheerfully and seized John’s shirt right back.

They were instantaneously rolling around on the bed again, one never triumphant for long, what with Paul’s ticklishness and John’s tendency to surrender as soon as Paul ended up on top of him. Paul had John halfway off the bed again when John nearly fell, and in his scramble to get back up on the bed, his foot shot out and kicked the wall.

There was not even a pause before three slams sounded on the wall in response. “ _Shut the ‘ell up in there! It’s not even light out!_ ” their neighboring motel guest shouted.

John and Paul looked at each other, eyes wide, and collapsed into a fit of giggles.

Paul scooted off of John’s legs and sat back on his side of the bed, holding out a hand to help get John back on the mattress once more. John stretched out on top of the blankets and Paul watched as he pulled off his jacket, tossing it carelessly on the floor.

He yawned, and when he looked back up, John was watching him with gentle, half-lidded eyes. “Are you still tired?” John asked.

“Yeah, I suppose,” Paul said, shrugging one shoulder. “D’you mind if I go back to sleep?”

“Nah,” John said, “I’ll be there in a second.” He stood up and headed, presumably, for the bathroom.

Paul reached up to click off the lamp and nestled himself under the covers, laying on his side facing John’s side of the bed. John was gone for a few minutes and then came back in silence. He probably thought Paul was already asleep, based on the careful way he slipped underneath the covers, his feet by Paul’s head, and vice versa. Top-and-tailing, just like always.

John didn’t say good night or anything (which wouldn’t have made sense based on the hour, anyhow), but he pressed his fingertips ever-so-lightly again Paul’s calf. He held them there for only a second, but to Paul, it felt like an eternity.

The spot felt cold and then burning hot and then cold again. He could still feel where each of John’s fingers touched his leg. Paul stared at the back of his eyelids and pretended to sleep.

\------

If Paul had been surprised by John touching his leg before they went to sleep, he nearly had a heart attack when he woke up only a few hours later.

John had somehow managed to wrap his entire body around Paul in his sleep. His thighs wrapped around Paul’s with his ankles crossed and his arms were tight around Paul’s knees.

He could feel John’s hair tickling his shin and he thought John might be drooling a little. It was a mixture of so-endearing-he-wanted-to-die and how-old-are-you-again-you-giant-baby; or, in simpler terms, adorable and disgusting.

Paul had to lift himself on one elbow to sit up at all since John had taken his legs hostage. He looked down the bed at his friend and immediately regretted it: in the soft morning light, John did look like a baby. He was at peace. His eyebrows were knotted together and his mouth was slightly ajar and his hair was a mess, but he seemed peaceful, and Paul considered the logistics of staying there forever; letting John _sleep_ for once in his life and letting John hold him.

Well, hold his _legs._

The fact that he was disappointed by that made Paul want to throw up in his mouth a little. It was John he was talking about, and that was something that only fags did, and Paul was not a fag. The words “fag” and “Paul” shouldn’t have even been used in the same sentence. Unless the sentence was _Paul was not a fag,_ of course, as the previous one was.

The mere thought made him shudder. The mere _thought_ of doing that with John made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Paul decided it was better to extricate himself from the situation than give it any more thought. So he slowly began to slide his legs up the bed toward his body, shivering a little at the feeling of John’s stubble against his shin, and almost sighed when he made it out of John’s arms.

It was too bad that his legs were much harder to escape. Paul took hold of the thigh on top of his and slowly, carefully lifted it off of him, then pulled his legs free. When he dropped John’s leg back on the bed, John stirred and Paul froze. _It’s not like I was doing anything wrong,_ he told himself, but it felt like he had somehow been caught in the act. What act, Paul didn’t know, but he only got off the bed once he was sure that John was still fast asleep.

Paul wore his coat over his pajamas and didn’t bother to put on socks before he pulled on his trainers. He looked back at John for only a second before he headed out the door onto the street.

There was a telephone booth on the corner at the end of the block. He had seen it when they came into Manchester the evening before, even though it was nearly dark at the time. Paul reached into the pocket of his coat as he walked, wondering if he had enough to call home.

He didn’t want to, but he needed to, and some part of him wanted to let his dad know he was still alive and well.

Another part of him dwelled between the covers of the motel bed still, no matter how much he wanted to rip it out of his head like a weed out of the soil.

Paul shook his head and opened the door of the phone booth, stepping inside and shutting it behind him. It cost him about 70p per minute in Manchester. Paul opened up the inside of his wallet and glared at it as though it would cause more coinage to appear. The method was unsuccessful, and he had… well, one £1 piece, and three 50p pieces… plus a ton of 10p pieces. _That’ll probably get me a couple of minutes, won’t it?_ He’d just have to hope that Jim didn’t spend the whole time screaming at him.

He put in the £1 and four 10p pieces, then tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear and dialed his home phone number. Paul was awfully lucky that he could even remember it, being that he hadn’t had to call home since he was thirteen and sleeping over at George’s after his birthday party.

The phone rang forebodingly. Once, twice… three times. Four, five, oh no, and then… six! Paul chewed on a thumbnail. What if his dad wasn’t home? _It’s a Saturday, he’s off work…_ oh _God_ , what if he was searching for Paul! He began to gnaw on his thumbnail like a dog on a soup bone.

On the eighth ring, Mike picked up. “‘Ello? ‘S Mike.”

“Mike,” Paul said, “it’s Paul. Can you give the phone to Da?”

There was a laugh from the other end of the line. “You’re in some deep shite,” Mike said, and then there were a few seconds of silence as he passed the phone.

“Jim McCartney speakin’.”

“Hi, Da,” Paul said in a small voice. “It’s Paul.”

And then it began.

“ _What_ on _Earth_ were you _thinkin’_ , Paul? I explicitly tell you that you’re not allowed to go, and then you go an’ become a bloody _runaway_! I never should have let you hang around that damn John Lennon. He’s a terrible influence… Do you know how many calls I’ve gotten from the hardware store? They’ve made that poor girl you work with cover your last two shifts! An’ I raised you better than to _lie_ to the man in charge of the store, I can’t believe you’ve been tellin’ him you’re sick. Unbelievable! An’ Mike’s had to walk everywhere, the lad wasn’t able to go to the cinema with his mates ‘cause you ran off. An’ he nearly burned the goddamned house down trying to make a can of ravioli! You should be ashamed of yourself. You better have called to tell me you’re buyin’ a bus ticket home.”

There was a long pause. Paul quite suddenly felt so angry he couldn’t breathe. It was like he had swallowed a bee: his throat closed up, his skin crawled with heat. He did so much for Jim and Mike, and the one time he chose to do something for himself, this was the response he got? Paul spit his nail out of his mouth and grabbed the phone with both hands.

“You know what, Da? I’m _not_ comin’ home yet! It’s not my fault that Jessica has to go into work, which she gets paid for, by the way… it’s not like she’s some slave. And it’s not my fault that MIke has somehow managed to make it to fifteen without ever making bloody _canned ravioli_ on his own! I’m not his babysitter! He’s old enough to drive himself to the fuckin’ cinema and I’m old enough to take a fuckin’ holiday with one of my mates!”

He was left panting into the phone, having completed his rant in only one breath.

There was another moment of silence on the line, and then his father sighed. “Language, Paul.”

“I’m seventeen,” Paul spat and went digging in his wallet for more coins to shove into the machine. He fed them into the phone a little more aggressively than was necessary.

“Are you safe?” Jim asked, a note of resignation in his voice. “Where are you at?”

“I’m fine,” Paul said. His hands were shaking with adrenaline. He’d never… well, _yelled_ at his dad before. It was odd. “I’m not gonna tell you.”

Jim sighed again. “Because you think I’d try to come get you.”

As Paul deliberated his answer, he recognized the familiar sound of the kettle boiling in the background, and his eyes fluttered shut as he pictured the kitchen in his mind. The metal kettle with its dent in the left side, the white cabinets with their chipping paint… the single piece of toast, uneaten, sitting butter-side-down on the counter.

His eyes flew open and he shook his head enthusiastically, like a dog trying to get water out of its ears. “Yeah. Sorry, Da.”

“I figured you wouldn’t,” Jim said. Paul wondered if he had poured his tea yet. “Is John okay? Have you found his da?”

He was surprised his dad had even remembered why they had gone in the first place. “He’s okay,” Paul said, unconsciously smiling as he thought of John tumbling around the bed and wrapping himself around Paul’s legs. “We haven’t found him yet, but we’ve got an address. Probably goin’ to meet him today.”

Jim hummed into the phone. “You’ve got a place to sleep? Not out on the streets?”

“Yeah, yeah. Motels and the like.”

“Good,” said Jim. “That’s good.”

They sat on the phone for a moment, neither knowing what to say. Paul was sorry for yelling at his father, and yet he also felt it had somehow been necessary. Maybe Jim wouldn’t make him chauffeur Mike all over Liverpool anymore, and maybe Mike would have to make his own canned ravioli for once in his life. If he could take girls out every Friday, he could figure out that you weren’t supposed to microwave the can itself.

Jim said, “I hope you’ll call and check-in every so often. If you’re not comin’ home.”

Paul’s heart swelled and he couldn’t help but smile. He had been so sure his dad was going to force him to return to Liverpool. “I will. Promise.”

“Alright, then,” Jim said. His voice sounded uncharacteristically tight. “Take care of yourself, son. Come home soon.”

He nodded although his father couldn’t see him and cradled the phone in both hands, such a stark change to the way he had gripped it only a few minutes earlier. “Okay. I love you, da.”

“Yes, yes,” Jim responded, but Paul knew he returned the sentiment. “Bye then.”

“Bye,” said Paul, and listened to his father hang up.

He hung up the phone and then stared blankly at the glass wall of the telephone box, watching passerby’s feet pass on the pavement outside. Paul couldn’t decide if he wanted to sleep for another six hours or jump up and down like a maniac. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it certainly hadn’t been Jim asking if John was okay or asking about his da. It was strange to think that Jim had paid attention to anything about John other than his hair ( _too long_ ), his smoking ( _too much_ ), and his cursing ( _too vulgar_ ). Perhaps it was just because Paul’s safety was in John’s hands and Jim had known Paul would make this decision.

 _Had Jim known?_ Paul considered this and decided that it wasn’t possible. Mike wouldn’t have done that, not if it meant staying in the inferior bedroom.

Paul was relieved and shocked and exhausted all at once, and he turned to open the door and step out of the phone booth when he nearly jumped out of his skin.

John, pressed up against the glass, was pulling a face that would probably strike fear into the hearts of small children; not only Paul. Paul wrinkled up his nose and opened the door of the phone booth, forcing John to take a few steps backward.

“What’s someone so, er, _pretty_ doing around these parts?” Paul asked with a note of mockery in his voice. John dropped the face and cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Lookin’ for my lad,” John said, grinning. “He’s supposed to help me go find my da, but I think he was havin’ a row with his instead.”

Paul felt his face heat up. “How much did you hear?”

“Not much. Jus’ the bit about the canned raviolis and the cinema and the…” John paused, tipping his head and smirking. “Oh, wait. All of it, then.”

Paul groaned and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, listening to John laugh. “You’re terrible,” he said without malice.

“I know, I know,” John responded, facetiously soothing. “Are you wanting breakfast?”

“Nah,” Paul said. He removed his hands from over his eyes and looked at John, feeling even more tired than before the call. It had sucked all the energy out of him. “Are you?”

“No,” John echoed. “Let’s go, then. Find my dad.”

Paul looked down at his shabby ensemble of pajama-set, overcoat, and trainers. “I’m not dressed,” he said, as though it _needed_ to be said.

John shrugged one shoulder and grinned. “I think you look excellent,” he said. “My dad will be very impressed.”

“You’re terrible,” Paul repeated as he allowed John to drag him down the street. It was coming alive in the mid-morning; businessmen with briefcases and fat ties, groggy mothers and nannies clutching large cups of coffee like life preservers, troupes of young children with lacrosse sticks. The cloudless sky was blue and clear even though it was cold out and the sun warmed Paul’s scalp. He wanted to lean into the sky and let the sun run its fingers through his hair.

“I know,” John said.

\------

John’s dad was not impressed with his outfit, because John’s dad wasn’t fucking _there._

They were sitting on an olive-green sofa that smelled like cat piss, nursing cups of tea that were too strong and waiting for their turn with the landlord. 16 Park Rd Worsley was a collection of brick townhouses in varying degrees of decay. The residents only accentuated this, being that they were practically corpses in their coffins. Three people were standing in front of them in line; a middle-aged woman with graying hair and her elderly father, who was leaning on a cane and wearing a pair of teal velvet pants that looked like something Elton John would wear to a funeral; and a young, grubby boy who was holding a rather large hammer and couldn’t have been more than ten.

Paul took a sip of his tea. It tasted like he was drinking the brine from a pickle jar.

He was almost offended that his pajama ensemble wasn’t the most interesting outfit in the room. And he could tell that John was offended that he wasn’t the craziest person in the room; it seemed to be a point of pride for John that he could always dust off his offensive spaz routines or suddenly break into song, and he would have the attention of everyone in the room. 

In this room, Paul honestly didn’t think that anybody would even look up had John started to sing about cripples and fags.

 _Eh. Maybe the old guy would look up._ Paul got a certain vibe from him.

“My hernia is actin’ up again,” the old guy whined at his daughter, “an’ my feet hurt. They really should turn on the radiator in this place, it’s too damn cold in here--”

“It’s July, da,” the woman said patiently.

“Is that my fault?” he demanded.

Paul smiled at his feet and leaned against the back of the couch. John’s arm was resting on it, and he was staring blankly at the floor, clearly bored.

The old man and the woman continued to bicker… well, it was just the old man complaining and then snapping at his daughter when she tried to reassure him.

When Paul looked up, he accidentally made eye contact with the little boy, who was not even trying to hide the fact that he was staring at them. He seemed a classic latchkey kid, with dirty knees and band-aids all over his hands and keys hanging from a chain on his neck. There was a mysterious stain on his shirt.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” asked the boy.

Paul decided to make eye contact with his feet instead and took another sip of tea even though it reminded him of vinegar. _This is shaping up to be a very strange day._

The old guy and his daughter headed into the landlord’s office when they were called in. As the door to the office opened, a huge cloud of cigarette smoke billowed out like Tupperware falling out of the fridge. Paul stifled his cough and ignored John’s smirk.

A cat was winding around John’s foot. He cooed at it and pet it even though it was probably the cause of the piss smell and Paul winced as John let the furry thing climb onto his lap. John was wearing black jeans and Paul absently wondered how much a lint roller was at the grocer’s.

The old man and his daughter reappeared, making their way out of the building at a very slow rate, which made Paul itch to jump up and help them to the door. He decided not to when the man started whacking his daughter’s ankles with his cane. It was another five minutes before the boy went into the office, holding his hammer like it was a future murder weapon.

John was still purring at the cat, which was purring in response and rubbing itself all over his t-shirt and jeans. Paul wondered whether the fur would come out if they went to a laundromat and John washed his clothes for once. He would introduce the idea later.

Eventually, the boy left, now carrying an enormous nail to accompany his enormous hammer. The cat abandoned John’s lap and followed the boy out of the ramshackle building, just managing to make it outside without getting the door dropped on it. Paul frowned.

He put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, and when he looked over at John, his friend was smiling at him. “What?”

“Nothin’,” John said.

Paul’s brow crinkled. “‘S clearly somethin’. You know, it’s suspicious when you’re smilin’ for no reason.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitched as he made an effort to sedate his smile.

Paul rolled his eyes. “I didn’t stay _stop,_ you sod.”

John looked down at his lap and smiled so softly it made Paul’s lungs ache. “Shuddup and maybe I won’t stop.”

He scoffed and looked down at his lap too. Paul was suddenly very aware of the fact that John’s arm was laying across the back of the couch, practically around his shoulders. He scooted forward and didn’t let his back touch the couch anymore.

Did John think about this the same way he did? Paul had never read into his interactions so much before. Something had changed to make him worried about it, but he could not think what. Because Paul wasn’t… he wasn’t _gay,_ and only gay people thought about it when their friend did something so simple as put his arm around them. Paul wasn’t a poof. He couldn’t be. So what was wrong with him?

The door to the landlord’s office flew open.

Again, the wave of tobacco smoke hit Paul’s lungs like a freight train, and he wheezed pathetically as John bum-rushed the door without waiting for an invitation. He nearly collided with a young Japanese woman in what looked to be a French maid costume. John and the woman stared blankly at each other, and Paul would have laughed if he hadn’t been busy hacking up a lung.

The ‘maid’ scuttled around John, who watched her go with a bewildered expression, seeming to forget that he was standing in the doorway of the landlord’s office.

The landlord was a short, round man with a Caesar haircut and hands that were entirely too big for his body. He had three cigarettes burning at once and appeared to be rotating between smoking each of them, holding one in each hand, and the other one resting on the lip of his ashtray. Paul trailed into the office after John and couldn’t decide whether to stare at the man’s bald head or the cigarette in the ashtray.

He held out his hand to shake the landlord’s, smiling politely. “I’m Paul, ‘s a pleasure to meet you. This here’s John. Thank you so much for seein’ us, sir.”

Paul’s hand remained unshaken. The landlord didn’t even put his cigarettes down, just stared Paul down until his hand was retracted. It was distinctly uncomfortable, which shouldn’t have surprised Paul at this point, considering this entire experience had been the social equivalent of an itchy wool sweater. Or perhaps starched underwear.

“Why’re you wearing pajamas?” the landlord asked.

Paul blinked, his mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish. _I’m currently a runaway, actually, and I was calling my dad to let him know I hadn’t been kidnapped, so I didn’t get a chance to change into jeans._ Frankly, it was none of this man’s business. He was better dressed than some of the people who lived _here,_ that much was clear.

“They’re comfortable,” said Paul dumbly.

John did not bother with any pleasantries. “I was wonderin’ if you’ve got a resident called Lennon,” he said.

The landlord took a long drag off the first cigarette and puffed out the smoke almost directly into Paul’s face. His eyes watered. “I did a few years back,” the man said. “Freddie?”

“Yeah, that’s him,” John said, but his excitement seemed to be dulled by the fact that Alf ( _Freddie?_ ) was long-gone by now.

“The last I heard of Freddie Lennon, he was headed to Stoke-on-Trent for a dishwashin’ job,” said the landlord. He inhaled the smoke deeply, but this time it was the third cigarette rather than the first. “Or maybe it was Swindon. Anyway, somethin’ or other with a S.”

John and Paul exchanged a weary look.

“Are you sure you don’t know anythin’ else?” Paul asked.

The landlord took a long drag off one of his cigarettes. “Kid, I would tell you if I did.”

As they walked back down the street, John heaved a sigh.

“Come now, it isn’t that bad,” Paul said, although it was that bad. He was starting to get a terrible feeling about this road trip of theirs.

How hard could it be to find one man? And why didn’t anybody know anything about his whereabouts? Paul had been able to track down Mike’s stolen camera in a week, and it hadn’t been running around England and leaving bloody _breadcrumbs_ for him to find.

“I know,” John said, bumping his shoulder into Paul’s. “‘S just an uphill battle, I suppose.”

 _That’s one way to look at it,_ Paul thought. If the hill went on forever and ever, climbing higher and higher so that you could never reach the top.

He thought God might be waiting at the top of that hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun with this one. The next update will include both chapters 4 and 5, cos I'm going to take a week's break since school is finally starting. As always, let me know what you think in the comments, or come talk to me on Tumblr @flightofthebluealiens.
> 
> Thank you to mossintheconcrete for beta-ing, and thank you for reading!!


	4. Stoke-on-Trent, Or: You Want a Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul make their way to Stoke-on-Trent on the advice of the landlord from Manchester. Paul's inner turmoil never seems to cease.

Morning light did not pounce on them so much as it crept vaguely on, and Paul thought it might have been worse that way.

Stifling a yawn, he tossed his leg over the motorbike in a motion that was by now practiced and wrapped his arms around John’s waist-- also familiar. John was wearing his glasses, a relief when he was driving, and he paused to push them up before starting the bike.

Paul didn’t jump in surprise like he did the first day, but that may have been because he didn’t have the energy for it. It was roughly five in the morning, and Paul had decided that his body would never get used to the idea of waking up before seven (ideally, eight). John, as usual, patted the back of Paul’s hands in reassurance, then revved the engine and they were off.

The bike still made Paul a little twitchy, but after five days straight of riding it, it didn’t seem unnatural that he had gotten used to it. He no longer counted every pebble and bump beneath the tires, at least. Paul didn’t clutch John’s jacket until it had wrinkles from his fingers.

_I’ve never been so tired,_ Paul thought. He turned his head to the right and leaned his face against John’s shoulder blades, a particularly awkward angle since John was a bit shorter than him. John didn’t seem to mind though; Paul nestled closer and stared at the blurry buildings as they passed.

It was a windy morning. All Paul could hear was the wind and the motorbike, and what he thought might be John’s heart, beating loudly and quickly. John got such an adrenaline rush from the bike. He could deny it all he wanted, but Paul knew.

There would be a few hours until Manchester woke up. It was a Monday, and the secretaries would fetch their bosses’ coffees; the schoolboys would climb into their uniforms and onto the buses; the retired couples would come out of their houses to tend the garden and fetch the newspapers. That old man with the teal pants would probably have breakfast prepared for him by his daughter, maybe a soft-boiled egg or buttered toast or a bowl of oatmeal. The little boy with the hammer would go to school, perhaps, or he would stay at home fixing… well, God only knew what required _that_ hammer and _that_ nail.

And Paul and John would be long gone, off to Stoke-on-Trent with the only trace of them found in the coins sitting in the phone booth.

The thought comforted Paul, in a strange, loose sense of the word, and he allowed his eyes to flutter shut as he envisioned the cluttered street. The thoughts faded and he was left asleep on John’s back. John didn’t seem to notice, much less mind.

\------

“Wake up, Macca… Cor, you’re heavy. Come on. Up you get.”

Paul felt like his head had been covered in plastic wrap and held underwater for ten minutes, like somebody was testing to see if it was an effective snorkel. He could safely say that if that had been the experiment, it was unsuccessful. Paul brought a hand to his mouth as he yawned, opening his eyes to find that he was half-on, half-off the motorbike, John’s hands clutching under his arms.

“Oh, thank God,” John said, promptly letting go of Paul. “You need to take it easy on the Cheese Nips.”

Paul gave John his best Haughty Look; raising his eyebrows, tilting his head back and glaring down his nose at his friend. The Haughty Look ran in the family; Mike did a great one when he wasn’t pretending to pick his nose and eat it for shock value. He climbed off the bike and stretched his arms over his head. “How long was I asleep?”

John scoffed. “Pretty much the whole ride. Lazy bastard.”

“That’s rich comin’ from you,” said Paul, without malice.

He squinted at their surroundings, taking it all in as best he could. Paul had been to Stoke-on-Trent once as a boy, but he remembered it merely as a plain city block with too many lampposts, being that he had only stopped there since he had to piss on a return trip from London. It was much different in the morning light. Surprisingly busy, with lots of young men and women speeding down the pavement. A couple of kids. The occasional elderly couple, but hardly any _real_ adults: the kind of middle-aged people who were as potent in Liverpool as a sexual disease in an inner-city secondary school.

John was beaming. “It’s _excellent,_ isn’t it?”

“Not bad,” Paul said, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. He was still groggy with sleep.

“I heard they have a free museum a couple of streets down. It’s about pottery, and you can even make your own, but you’ve gotta pay for that bit.”

Paul nodded, still staring out at the street. He’d never seen so many cafes on one block.

“Macca?” John waited until Paul looked at him. His voice was soft. “What’s on your mind?”

“Let’s go to that pottery museum,” Paul said, and his heart melted like candle wax when John beamed.

Two hours later, Paul was regretting ever agreeing to go to the pottery museum. Their wallets were nearly forty dollars lighter, and both John and Paul were sitting on the floor, hunkered over rapidly spinning wheels, their hands covered in sticky gray clay.

John’s eyebrows were furrowed together; his eyes were fixed on the clay as though it was his life’s mission. It was endearing. Paul kept getting distracted and spinning out his clay too far, earning disapproving looks from the hippies in charge of the class.

They were supposed to be making mugs. John’s mug was indeed very mug-shaped, while Paul’s was looking like a platter that his da might serve little sausages on at Christmas.

Looking between John and his mug, Paul sighed loudly.

John didn’t react. Paul hummed, feeling sorry for himself, poking at the misshapen ‘mug.’ He had stopped the wheel, and the clay was just sitting there, looking very watery and droopy. He sighed and looked at John’s mug.

John turned off his wheel with a roll of his eyes and turned to Paul. “Y’know, if you want help, you can just ask.”

Paul felt his cheeks go hot. “I don’t need any help,” he protested, going to cross his arms over his chest before he remembered that his hands were coated in clay.

“Okay,” John said. He reached forward to turn his wheel back on.

“Wait, wait! Can… can you help?”

John snorted affectionately and scooted toward Paul. “Here,” he said, putting his hands over Paul’s and loosening his grip on the mound of clay. “You’re holdin’ it too tight. It’s getting all flat.”

He let go of Paul’s hands and reached down to turn the wheel on, and Paul watched in wonder as the clay reshaped, forming a cylindrical shape. It was a bit too long to be a mug, but it was much better than what he had been making. He was doing great until he looked up at John; John was watching Paul’s face with a smile and Paul’s hands promptly flattened the clay. The mug became a strange, droopy shape once again, and Paul did his best not to blush when John laughed.

John reached back over and covered Paul’s hands with his own. “Loosen up a little,” he murmured, almost directly in Paul’s ear. Paul tried not to shiver. He loosened his grip, and as the mug began to reform, John was smiling. “That’s perfect, Macca.”

Paul scrunched up his eyebrows. Maybe that was the secret to ceramics: make a ridiculously intense face like John had and it would all work out.

As he drew his hands off the clay, he was astonished to discover that he was successful. Paul had a basic mug shape now, spinning round on the wheel without a single spot flattened. “Wow, it actually worked.”

“ _Thank you, Johnny, my lad, you wonderful man, master of ceramics, thank you,_ ” John said mockingly, scooting back over to his mug. John was trying to shape a handle now; he had already carved out little ridges in the mug with his thumb.

“Thanks, Johnny,” said Paul. He was unable to stop grinning at the stupid mug. It was possibly the greatest thing he’d ever seen.

Because of this, he didn’t catch the long, almost wistful smile John gave him.

It took another twenty minutes for Paul to shape his handle, and more assistance from John, who was still able to get his mug painted and in the kiln before Paul had managed with his handle. Rolling the sticky clay with his fingers, he glanced up at John, who had just returned from the kiln.

“How are you so good at this?” he grumbled.

“I occasionally go to art school when I’m not followin’ you around,” John said, settling on the floor beside Paul and kicking his legs out into the aisle. 

There were a lot of people around them, sitting in front of wheels and painting mugs with tiny paintbrushes. John had painted his yellow with a lot of colorful flowers on it; it was in direct opposition to Paul’s lumpy mug, which he was thinking about painting plain blue. He didn’t trust himself with patterns.

“Yeah, but I thought you were takin’ classes for paintin’,” Paul said. He manhandled the handle onto the mug, pressing a little too enthusiastically and almost smashing the side of the mug. John, watching over his shoulder, winced.

“They have me takin’ classes in everythin’,” said John. “It’s only my second year.”

Paul nodded and bit his lip as he looked through the paints John had already brought over, settling on plain black.

“That’s borin’,” John said.

“Good thing I didn’t ask,” Paul shot back, grabbing a paintbrush and beginning his work. It didn’t take him long; John watched over his shoulder in silence.

“At least let me paint a bee on it or somethin’.”

“No. It’s supposed to be plain.”

“What about a guitar?”

Paul hesitated. “No.”

John sighed dramatically and collapsed backward onto the ground. Paul stood up and took his mug to the front of the room, letting the hippie chick with the sandals and beaded jacket stick it in the kiln. When he returned, John had a paintbrush in hand and was creating the outline of a bee on the back of his other hand.

“You’re the most dramatic person I’ve ever met,” Paul informed him.

John arched an eyebrow without looking up. “You do know who you are, right?”

They had to wait two hours for the kiln to finish their mugs. John finished the bee on his hand and somehow managed to convince Paul that he needed one to match, so Paul held still and tried not to giggle as the paintbrush smoothed paint over the back of his hand. The fibers of the brush tickled. When their mugs were done, they learned that it would take another couple of days to glaze them… and so they snatched up their mugs from the kiln and took off without bothering with glaze.

“I can’t wait to drink out of this,” Paul said happily as they walked back down the street. “It feels great to have made somethin’ with your hands, you know?”

John paused, a bemused expression on his face. He reached out for Paul’s mug and flipped it over… revealing a small hole on the bottom of the mug, exactly the size of a pinkie finger. It was also unpainted.

“It's a good thing you're pretty," said John.

\------

“What did you say your name was?”

The owner of the motel was the kind of man that girls swooned over. He had large dark eyes, offset by his smooth, pale skin… he almost looked like a deer, oddly. Paul didn’t like men, obviously, but if he had… well, he could imagine that this man might have been the kind he would.

John seemed to be almost intimidated by the man, uncharacteristically quiet and staring a bit too much. Paul thought it must have made the motel owner rather uncomfortable. The man was counting out the wad of bills that John had handed him; they stood at the desk waiting for him to hand over the room key. Paul was beat and all he wanted to do was go to sleep, but the motel owner was taking his sweet time.

“Lennon,” John said absently. He fiddled with the hem of his jacket, glancing up at Paul.

The owner stopped counting the bills and looked up, staring back at John. “Alf?”

John froze, his lips parted slightly. “John. Alf’s my da. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is?”

“No, I haven’t seen him in a very long time,” the owner said, some kind of regret in his voice. “We were on a couple of ships together. Alf was always real fun.”

John turned to Paul and Paul could see the sparkle of hope in his friend’s eyes.

_But he doesn’t know anything about his whereabouts, so why are we bothering?_ Paul thought, miffed at the idea of having to stay up late talking to this random ex-ship merchant. _John_ could stay up and talk if he wanted, but Paul wanted to go to sleep.

“Which ships?” John asked at the same time Paul said “which one is our room, then?”

John shot Paul a pointed glare that was really undeserved. “Which ships?” he repeated.

The oblivious motel owner tilted his head in thought. “Oh, well, let’s see… I can’t quite recall, but I think there were five or so.” He chuckled. “You’ll have to forgive me, it was more than ten years ago.”

Paul looked over his shoulder at John. He was staring at the man with an intensity that made Paul want to look away and step back. It felt like he had sparks in his eyes; like he was sitting too close to a bonfire.

“Did he ever talk to you about Julia?”

“Here and there,” the motel owner replied. “Usually after a drink or two. He was always more open then. Told me she was the love of his life.”

A beat. John’s expression was somewhere between relieved and angry. “What about me?” he pressed. “Did he ever say anythin’ about me?”

“John,” Paul murmured, reaching out and tugging at John’s sleeve.

His gaze turned on Paul and the fire faded from his eyes. Gentle upon Paul’s face, upon the breaking of whatever trance he seemed to be in. “Right,” he said, holding eye contact for a prolonged moment before he turned back to the owner and shook Paul’s hand off his coat. “We’d better be getting to bed, then. Thank you.”

The owner looked between Paul and John, the corner of his mouth twitching downward. “Oh, alright then,” he said, returning to the stack of money he had been handed earlier. He started over with counting it.

Paul brought his hand to his mouth and absently chewed at one of his fingernails. John was still and silent at his side, staring at the man in that intense way he had before. It was an odd stare; somehow weighted in a way that was beyond a simple desire for information. Paul disliked it.

The man handed John the room key, his fingertips pressing into John’s palm for just a second longer than necessary.

Paul bit his nail so hard he tasted blood.

“Cheers. Good night,” John said, and then led Paul out of the office. Their room was at the opposite end of the motel. But then there was a shout, and John turned back.

“Oi! Come here a second,” the man was shouting, one hand cupped around his mouth.

John didn’t even look at Paul before he shoved the room key into his hand and turned back.

Paul couldn’t hear what they were saying from this distance. The man leaned in to whisper something directly into John’s ear, and John giggled, nodding and rubbing at the side of his neck. The corners of Paul’s mouth began to droop. _God, just hurry up, will you?_

Another moment or two passed, the man talking low in John’s ear and John fluttering his eyelashes at the ground. Paul glared at his feet rather than watch them.

Eventually, John jogged back over to Paul and slung an arm around his shoulders, grinning. It only served to deepen Paul’s frown. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets.

“What was that about?” asked Paul as John took the key from him and unlocked the door. Paul then realized that he probably could’ve just gone to the room without John, and not had to watch him talk to the owner… _doesn’t matter._

“Oh, nothing,” John said, and they went inside.

Paul immediately collapsed onto the bed without even bothering to take his shoes or coat off. He let out a heavy sigh and dug his face into the coarse bedding. He decided he was too tired to do the usual back-and-forth “it’s not nothing” (“ _yeah it is_ ”) with John, so he let it go.

He could hear John kick off his shoes and pad into the bathroom. The shower turned on, and the steady stream of water was audible through the walls. The pipes were awfully loud. After a while, the water turned off; John emerged and settled against the headboard of the motel bed, somewhere between Paul’s left leg and arm.

It was familiar and comfortable, and he listened to John’s faint breathing and the rustle of the room service pages as he flipped through them. He allowed himself to doze, spread-eagle on the bed with his face toward John. This was one of his favourite things; half-in and half-out of consciousness so that he was still aware of John’s presence and the sound of the world around him, but also able to think and dream and rest. It was his definition of peace.

Paul was brought out of this peace by a loud series of knocks at the door.

John shouted, “jus’ a minute!” It struck Paul as incredibly familiar. John was murmuring something about “I jus’ want to talk to him about my da” as he flipped up his coat collar and put the room key in his pocket.

“I’ll only be a few minutes. Don’t wait up, okay?” He smiled at Paul, then turned his back on him and headed out the door. “Back before you know it,” he called.

Before Paul knew it, he had been abandoned.

From the other side of the door, he could hear the motel owner, murmuring to John in that smooth, deep voice. “You look just like your father, y’know.”

Paul raised his hand and blindly flipped the V at the door.

\------

Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two. It was almost midnight and John still had not returned. Paul was beginning to worry that he had been abducted. It was too quiet in the room to truly get to sleep, without the steady, raspy sound of John’s breathing, and so Paul sat up in bed and turned on the telly.

Some rerun of an American soap opera was playing. He didn’t recognize it and he wasn’t particularly interested in it, but he left it on, staring blankly at the screen as the superficially attractive women and men flitted across it.

Paul wondered what the man could be telling John. _Maybe just stories about his da?_ He was sure that there had to have been some misadventures, out on the water with nothing to see or do for miles. Put John and Paul on a ship and they would manage to get themselves kicked off… maybe Alf had taken something too far, and that was why he was on land now. If he was anything like John, it must’ve been inevitable.

He also wondered, not for the first time, why John had bothered bringing him along. It certainly wasn’t for moral support; Paul had been banished to the motel room as soon as John had decided to talk to the owner. He was beginning to feel like a waste of space. John didn’t seem to mind Paul being there, but he also went off on his own a lot, such as going to the Manchester delis at four in the morning to find that business card. Such as now.

“You shouldn’t have waited up,” John said from the doorway, causing Paul to jump.

“What took you so long?” Paul asked. Trying to hide his relief at John’s arrival, he turned to face his friend, who had just stepped into the light.

The blue light from the television cast John’s face in partial shadow. But there was no mistaking his swollen, red lips. His mussed-up hair.

John was studying Paul coolly. “I look jus’ like my dad.”

It seemed like a challenge, such a simple statement. It couldn’t have meant anything else; he knew Paul knew. He was daring Paul to say something. To acknowledge it.

Paul didn’t know what to say, and so he didn’t say anything at all. He merely stared back at John. With their eyes locked, he didn’t have to look at the dark bruise forming on the underside of John’s chin… at the state of his rumpled clothing. It was _wrong,_ and for more reasons than one. _Why would John… how could he have done?_ How could that ex-sailor have done? John was hardly an adult… and the son of an old friend. And a _man._

And Alf’s old friend didn’t know anything about John. He didn’t know how John took his tea in the morning, or that John liked the Smiths but not the Cure, or what his favourite vegetable was (it was a trick question because John didn’t like any vegetables).

That man used John because he looked like Alf, and that made Paul’s insides twist and untwist just to twist again until he couldn’t quite figure out where the ends were anymore.

John was the one who broke the contact first. He simply turned and went into the bathroom, leaving Paul staring at the wall.

God, how had he not known? Wasn’t it supposed to be obvious when somebody was gay? Paul had always been told that queers were the kind of people who were terrible at sports and liked to wear lipstick and talked like girls. They practically _were_ girls.

The shower started for the second time that night. Paul tangled his fingers into his hair, pulling harshly at the roots.

_Those are men you should stay away from,_ Paul had been told many times, by many different people. His uncles and his cousins and his friends. _They’re not real men. Any ‘man’ who likes it up the arse is the same as a woman._

But John wasn’t like that. Paul knew everything about John, and he knew John wasn’t a queer. He couldn’t be, because that would mean… well, that would mean anybody could be a queer. George, Mike, Pete… hell, _Paul_ could be a queer. The thought made him shudder.

John couldn’t be gay, because Paul couldn’t be gay. And that was how it was. How it _had_ to be.

_No, not how it has to be, because I’m not,_ Paul reminded himself. _I’m not…_ he couldn’t even make himself think the word, at least not concerning himself, and he dragged his hands over his face until the skin was stretched so far it hurt. His eyes and mouth were sandpaper.

Paul’s inner turmoil was rudely interrupted when John returned from the bathroom, after what felt like a very long time. John’s hair was wet and he was wearing fresh clothes. He looked like John again, not like some… some sailor’s _plaything_ or whatever. He looked almost scared.

Paul glanced at John out of the corner of his eye, unable to make eye contact with him. His stomach was churning. He thought he might throw up.

He scooted over and patted the mattress beside him, and pretended not to hear the sigh of relief. John climbed onto the bed and sat next to Paul, his eyes on the television. Only then could Paul relax, with John’s eyes off of him. The expectation was gone.

They wouldn’t talk about it, not tonight. _Not ever,_ Paul hoped.

Because this was how it had to be, and Paul could not imagine anything else.

\------

“He told me that Da went back to Liverpool about ten years ago, an’ that’s about when I started livin’ with Mimi, an’ I remember him and Julia fighting about it…”

They were eating breakfast at a nearby cafe, and John was doing his best to drown his drop scones. His enthusiasm for maple syrup seemed only to be matched by his enthusiasm for the topic at hand: what Alf’s ex-friend had told John about his father the night before.

Paul picked at his oatmeal and tried to let his mind go blank. _Maybe I_ should _let George teach me about his Buddhist mediation bullshit._ He could hardly look at John, and yet he couldn’t look away. Paul’s eyes were constantly drawn back to the dark shadow on his friend’s jaw. He kept envisioning the man in his mind, sucking that mark onto John, and trickles of cold sweat would roll down his back.

He had woken up in the middle of the night and sat in front of the toilet, knees knocking together as he fought the urge to vomit. All he could see when he closed his eyes was John’s puffy lips on the man’s. The man running his big, rough hands through John’s curly hair.

There was something wrong with him.

“...an’ he said that after that, Da made plans to go to London, but he stopped over in Birmingham first. Are you listenin’?” John asked, startling Paul.

“Yeah, yeah,” Paul said, glancing up at John. He let the back of the spoon slap against the surface of the oatmeal and watched his contorted face in the metal. _What am I supposed to do about all this?_ What could he do, other than ignore and avoid and hide from the topic? It was what he always did; Paul’s tried-and-true method of confrontation was to simply… not.

And he didn’t want to have this conversation with John. _Not now, not ever,_ he promised himself. It would be somehow easier that way, to completely avoid everything that had happened last night. They would not discuss it until John forgot about it and Paul could pretend he had forgotten about it, and things would go back to normal between them.

John was frowning at him when Paul came back down to Earth. “Macca?” he asked, in that concerned tone of voice that always made Paul feel he was being mothered.

“‘M fine, sorry,” Paul muttered. “Birmingham, then? That’s where we’re off to next?”

John didn’t look convinced, but he let it go. “Yeah, soon enough,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Why not today?” _Are we staying another day so you can sleep with that fag?_

John shrugged one shoulder and smiled sheepishly down at his plate. Despite the discomfort, anger, and confusion brewing in Paul’s stomach, the smile still drew some sort of fond feeling out of Paul. It was too bad that John had a way of doing that to him. “I wanted to check out some more museums,” he explained. “Pottery is this city’s _thing._ ”

Paul didn’t have to force his smile. It was genuine, and it felt like a line of cigarette burns across his face as a result. “Of course,” he said, and he meant it. “Jus’ don’t get us baked into a jug.”

His friend barked a laugh. “I think you’ll find we can get baked even without pottery,” he teased. Typical Lennon.

_The man that fucked him didn’t know typical Lennon from un-typical Lennon._ Paul wished he could put a muzzle on his brain. It chewed at him like a rabid dog, and this time he did have to force his smile. “What did he tell you about Alf bein’ on the ships?”

John’s face lit up and he started talking again, pausing only to shove oversized bites of soggy drop scone into his mouth. “Well, there was this one time that they were in Peru, y’know, and…”

Paul nodded along and smiled and laughed in the right places. He waited for John to notice that there was something wrong. John didn’t seem to.

\------

That night, Paul stuck one leg out of the blankets and steadied his breathing so that it appeared he was already asleep by the time John was getting in bed. It was a sick, twisted curiosity: would John still touch him if he _knew_ Paul knew? Would he risk waking Paul up, maybe even getting a fist to the face for it?

John sunk onto the mattress beside him and paused for a minute. Paul didn’t dare look at him, but it didn’t matter anyhow, because John crawled between the sheets without even the ghost of a touch. He turned on his side and faced away from Paul.

Paul laid awake for hours. He listened to John snuffle in his sleep and eventually reached down to press his fingers against his own calf.

It wasn’t the same. The brush of his fingers felt like he had ripped open a wound.

\------

John didn’t go back to the man. If he did, he did it in five minutes while Paul was taking a piss, and somehow managed to return to bed and fall asleep looking the same.

Paul woke up to the sound of music. It was one of those American grunge bands that Paul didn’t care for. Nirvana or Soundgarden or maybe the one with the pearls.

“Good morning,” John said cheerfully. “I really need to stop nicking George’s records.” He was perched on the desk, _The Hobbit_ in hand.

“You’re not allowed to wake up first anymore,” Paul groaned as he buried his head under a pillow. He felt like he had a hangover, the song was giving him such a headache. The vocalist was practically screeching. It was a testament to his exhaustion that he had managed to sleep through the chunk of music that he did.

John was giving him that smile again, the same one he had given him in the landlord’s office in Manchester, and Paul turned away to hide his face.

He wondered how he hadn’t noticed that smile before. It was like somebody shining a flashlight directly in his eyes. Maybe Paul had just been blind, and in a medical miracle, he had regained his sight at the exact moment that John had come back into their motel room with hickeys.

But he couldn’t have been blind; Paul didn’t have the patience to learn another language, much less braille.

“Turn it _off,_ ” Paul whined, and John rolled his eyes but stood up and grabbed the needle off the record player. With a scratch, the music ( _could it even be called that?_ ) stopped. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah. We have to leave soon,” John said, stretching his arms above his head and yawning into his armpit. Paul wrinkled his nose.

“Why?”

“Gotta get to the Birmingham motel by noon,” explained John, “because they’ve only got one vacancy.”

“What time is it now?”

“It’s eleven.”

Paul immediately sat up. “ _What?_ Why didn’t you wake me up?” He stumbled out of bed, reaching for the floor and pulling on a discarded pair of jeans that he vaguely recognized as his. “What if there’s traffic? We’re going to be _late._ ”

“It’s only fifty minutes to Birmingham,” John said, an amused expression on his face as Paul hopped around on one leg, struggling the other into his trousers.

Paul shot a glare in John’s direction as he shimmied the jeans up on his waist and started doing up the many buttons. “ _Traffic,_ ” he said, “does not conform to your estimated time of arrival.”

“Fine,” said John, tossing his book into the nearest duffel bag (which was Paul’s). “Get your bloody shoes on, then. Daft lad.”

John was the one to step out of the hotel room first, but he halted just outside the doorway. Paul had no choice but to stop behind him.

“We could stay here, y’know,” John said, his tone suddenly one of longing. His eyes were focused on the sky up above, which was unusually bright and blue; the sun cast morning shadows over the bustling city streets. It was a gorgeous day. “Rent a flat, an’ do nothin’ but play music for the rest of our lives. We could get a cat, or a dog if you’d rather, an’ I could transfer to the local college… maybe Hazza could live next door or somethin’.” John sighed, tilting his head. His eyelashes fluttered. They were glowing auburn in the sunlight, the same as his hair. “Wouldn’t _that_ be nice.”

Paul’s throat felt as though it had closed up. “John,” he said, savouring the word.

_That sounds incredible. Get the fuck away from me. I would love to live here with you. Stop trying to drag me into your fag bullshit._

“We’re going to be late,” Paul finished.

John turned and looked at him through squinty eyes, even though he was wearing his glasses. Paul felt naked under his stare, like John could see all of his thoughts, like John knew just what he wanted. But then John said “I don’t know what I expected,” and Paul’s throat closed back up as John turned away with a huff and led him down the street.

They didn’t speak as they walked out of the motel and down the block to where John had parked the motorbike. The silence hung heavy over the pair. Paul wrung the straps of his duffel bag, biting at the inside of his cheek.

“I need my keys,” John said, and Paul turned around obediently. John unzipped the bag on Paul’s shoulder and started pawing through it. The keys must have been at the bottom because it was taking his friend an unusually long time to find them.

Paul’s eyes wandered over the street, taking in one last look. After three days, he could see why John was enamored with Stoke-on-Trent; even if they had not had entirely good experiences here. The pottery studios, the museums, all the college students… it was a city teeming with life. He sighed and watched a trio of young boys jog down the street, pushing past adults and laughing raucously, one of them clutching a small and damp package of some kind. A tall blonde woman wearing nothing but an oversized button-up glared down her nose at them as they rushed past. She smiled, however, at a gangly young waiter, whose blush reached all the way down his neck and who nearly spilled tea all over the pair of women he was serving at an outdoor table of some bistro.

His eyes settled on the pair of women. They were more _girls_ than women, really, probably college students. A tall, freckled brunette and a very petite girl with a shaved head. Paul didn’t think he’d ever seen a girl with a shaved head before.

They were talking quietly, heads leaned close together over the table. The girl with the shaved head laughed at something the brunette said, and Paul’s expression unconsciously mirrored the affectionate smile the brunette gave off in response.

“Come on, then,” John was saying, and Paul realized that he had already zipped up the bag and started the bike. Paul climbed on behind John, wrapping his arms as lightly as possible around his friend’s waist. He ignored John’s expression of relief in the rearview mirror, his eyes drawn back to the girls at the bistro table.

Paul watched in fascination as the brunette girl glanced around, then craned her neck to kiss the girl with the shaved head. The latter immediately responded; she wrapped her hand around the back of the brunette’s neck and pulled her closer, and they stayed like that for only a few moments before parting. Breathless, giggling but quickly leaning away from each other.

Something familiar and yet paradoxically foreign wrapped its warm fingers around Paul’s heart and squeezed. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and squeezed back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I was going to post both chapters 4 and 5 today, but my area of the world has had some trouble with fires and my family had to evacuate our home. We had no power and no internet for a while, so I was only able to finish this one chapter... school was delayed though, so it wasn't all bad. :) I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy.
> 
> Look out for a John-centric oneshot. I've gotten a burst of inspiration and it'll be my apology for delaying chapter 5.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and thank you to mossintheconcrete for editing this for me! I'm particularly proud of this chapter... as always, tell me what you think in the comments, and come talk to me on Tumblr @flightofthebluealiens.


	5. Birmingham, Bristol, and Bath, Or: B is for Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They come to a standstill after a dead-end in Birmingham. With time to think, Paul has a realization.

“How hard can it be to find one Maris?” Paul complained as they left yet another grocer’s. “Nobody’s named their kid Maris since the fifties. They’ve gotta be dyin’ off by now.”

“That’s when your da was born, the fifties,” John reminded him, licking chocolate off his fingers. He had stolen a candy bar and somehow managed to eat the entire thing _in the store._ Paul was pretty sure John had made direct eye contact with numerous employees. None of them had even given him a second look. It would have been admirable if Paul was not quite so grumpy.

“Don’t wanna talk about my da,” Paul said. He dug his fingers into his forearms as he crossed his arms over his chest. “And you don’t either if you know what’s good for you,” he added, more as a vague afterthought than as an actual threat.

John cocked an unimpressed eyebrow at him and reached over to stuff the empty candy wrapper into the pocket of Paul’s mac. “What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

Paul unconsciously wrinkled his nose up.

“I’m _tired,_ ” he snapped. “And hungry.” _But that’s not really it and we both know it._

John frowned. There was a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. He looked like the world’s grungiest Lord Licorice. All he was missing was the moustache. “Y’know, it’s not my fault that you don’t eat proper,” he protested.

“You never want to go anywhere that doesn’t serve a bloody _burger!_ ”

“You _could_ eat a burger,” John muttered in that way he did when he knew he was provoking Paul. It was infuriating, which Paul knew in the back of his mind was exactly what John wanted… but John was awfully good at being infuriating.

“I don’t _want_ to eat a burger, and I don’t wanna have this conversation with you again,” Paul said as stoically as possible.

“It’s not my fault that most places don’t serve your fuckin’ vegetarian shite. There’s not a lot of demand for salty soy mush.”

His stoic-ness was promptly thrown out the window. “I jus’ told you that I don’t wanna have this conversation,” Paul growled, his nose inches from John’s. “Are you deaf, too, not just blind?”

His eyes flickered down to John’s upper lip. It was slowly curling.

“Jus’ don’t complain about there bein’ nothin’ to eat when there’s plenty around!”

Paul threw his hands up, huffing, and stormed off. He didn’t want to argue with John, but he also couldn’t survive on a diet of chips and toast. They were nearly at the door to the motel room when his friend spoke again.

“Y’know, you could always order somethin’ other than chips, an’ you could always jus’ _buy your own fuckin’ food,_ ” John said, only a few steps behind Paul.

“Chips are the only thing on the menus at the places you patronize,” Paul shot back, whirling around to face John when they reached the door.

“ _Patronize?_ My goodness, I didn’t realize we were dealing with the queen mum here!”

“God, would you _shut up!_ ”

There was a dangerous moment of silence. Then: “What did you jus’ say to me?”

Paul shifted his weight between his feet, not meeting John’s eye. He knew he had gone too far. John hated being told to shut up.

John leaned far, far into his personal space; he was nearly an inch shorter than Paul and yet he seemed to tower over him at this moment. He looked down his nose at Paul as though he was something smashed on the bottom of his shoe. 

There was something deep inside Paul that twitched at that look. He choked it down like an oversized pill and stared back at John.

Another beat. John’s eyes narrowed, and Paul felt himself lean toward John, almost unwillingly but not quite. He could feel his muscles tense as John’s hand raised from his side.

“Fuck you, Paul,” John spat and pulled the motel key out of his pocket, shoving it into Paul’s hand before he turned sharply on his heel and marched off.

Paul stood there dumbfounded for only a moment before his anger took back the reins. “Oi! OI, JOHN! Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he shouted after John.

“Eat shit,” John snapped over his shoulder. “Maybe you’ll be less fuckin’ hungry then.”

Paul gripped the key in his hand so tightly that the metal cut into his palm. _Arsehole._

In his defense, it had been a very long day. They had been sent on a wild goose chase, and Paul now had another reason to curse that man from Stoke-on-Trent: arriving in Birmingham at six in the morning, they had discovered that the address the man had given them was incorrect. An alternate-universe version of Manchester commenced, with the lads sitting on a dusty old couch and waiting for a landlord to call them in. There wasn’t even a dirty cat for John to pet.

The landlord was the opposite of the one in Manchester; she was a land _lady,_ and hardly older than John and Paul. She had a baby on her hip and the dress she wore was probably a repurposed costume from _Little House On The Prairie,_ but she had files on every resident that had ever lived in her flats and she told them with certainty that he had moved to another section of Manchester three years ago ( _that bastard,_ she’d said, spitting on the ground).

“But I’d bet my left tit that bastard Rod knows where he is,” she had said between coos at her baby. “He and his wife run a grocery downtown. Fat, two-timin’, ugly cheap bastards.”

Paul thought the woman might need to learn an insult besides _bastard._

They left the flats right after eight-thirty in the morning, empty-handed except for the names Rod and Maris Klein, grocers extraordinaire.

Racing all over Birmingham for more than nine hours, demanding to speak to managers at Tesco and interrogating elderly cashiers at mom-and-pop shops… John was doing an excellent job of exhausting Paul, both physically and emotionally. So he really couldn’t be blamed for snapping at John, right? Getting into a fight?

Paul was so tired, and John knew exactly which buttons to push.

He unlocked the door to the motel room and kicked off his shoes, slamming the door behind him. Abandoning his mac on the floor, Paul climbed atop the bed, sighing heavily as he laid face-down on the mattress. It was a relief to be off his feet.

Paul groped blindly on the bedside table for the television remote, flicking on the telly and lifting his head upon his elbows to watch. The show was something he recognized. Reruns of one silly police drama or another; he couldn’t keep them straight, that was what Mike and the telly guide were good for. With a cursory glance around the room, he established there was no guide. Decided it wasn’t all that important anyway.

Watching the telly go, his mind got lost and wandered back to John. It seemed to be doing that a lot as of late. _Perhaps I should buy it a map._

He didn’t enjoy the way they had left that conversation. John storming off was never a good thing, particularly because it was improper to leave him be when he got angry. John’s anger did not grow cold and fizzle out; it merely went from boiling to simmering and then the lid came off the pot when you were least expecting it and burned you. Paul had been on the receiving end of this enough times to know to make amends as soon as possible.

So perhaps he could apologize when John came back. _If he comes back,_ some part of Paul reminded him mournfully, and he promptly cut it out of his brain. _John will come back. He has to._

Paul knew he was being dramatic. He was often told that he had missed his calling in the theater, but Paul figured that Mike jeering at him about how he should’ve worn tights for a living was not the same as… well, simply having a penchant for drama. He attracted it like flies to honey. It was too bad that John was pretty much the most dramatic fly ever.

Cor, how long had John been gone? _Nearly an hour, now,_ if the clock was correct and with no sign of returning. Paul groaned and grabbed one of the pillows. Making a half-hearted attempt to smother himself, he wondered what John might be doing. _Probably looking for the Kleins, without his daft friend to slow him down,_ that same pathetic part of Paul’s brain bemoaned.

“I thought I lobotomized you,” Paul said aloud, tossing the pillow onto the ground and groaning again. The clock seemed only to exist to mock him, ticking away relentlessly. 

“And you,” he told the clock face, “are nearly as bad.”

Another ten minutes passed. Then twenty. He was starting to wonder.

John had been gone for… what, two hours, when he was with that man? It was coming up on two hours. Maybe he had found another man to spread his legs for. 

Maybe, and _it would just be so fitting, wouldn’t it…?_ well, maybe the man from Stoke-on-Trent had agreed to meet John here. The more Paul thought about it, the more it made sense. He could practically picture it: John getting up after… _the deed,_ putting on his clothes and kissing the man goodbye. Slipping him a piece of paper with the name of the next motel they were going to stay in written on it. It was the beginning of a great love affair, the Stoke-on-Trent man and John. Mister and Mister John Lennon, years apart in age but matched in intelligence and looks. The perfect couple.

_Why do you insist on thinking stupid things?_ Paul asked himself and tossed another pillow at the wall because it was better than tossing a chair. However, this left him without any pillows, and he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He could feel himself frowning. When he attempted to neutralize his expression, the frown popped right back into place.

Paul knew he should apologize to John, and that was what he chose to focus on as he watched the ceiling. He swore it was dilapidating with every blink.

In his mind, he began to draft his speech.

_‘Oi, John--’_ ah, no, too aggressive. A calmer approach. _‘Hello, John, I need to speak to you about--’_ far too formal. _‘John, I know you’re angry, but I’ve been thinkin’ and I wanted you to know that I--’_

The door blew open with such suddenness that Paul nearly fell off the bed. “Christ!”

John was standing there, looking windswept, his hair and coat soaked. Paul hadn’t realized it had begun to rain; additionally, he hadn’t realized that he had forgotten to lock the door behind himself. The same glare remained on John’s face as before.

Paul stood up quickly, tripping over his words and his feet. “John! Oh, John, I jus’ wanted to tell you that I’m sor--”

He yelped when the box hit him squarely in the chest, then leaned down to pick it up off the floor. The box was small and lightweight, and once Paul got over his surprise, he looked down and read the label.

It was Sosmix. John had gone out in the pouring rain to buy him a plant-based sausage mix.

“Thank you,” said Paul. His mind was cloudy around the edges. How could he… how could he have thought that John was off having some _affair?_ He didn’t deserve John, nobody did; John was kind and generous and such, such a good friend…

“Now keep your fuckin’ trap shut about the burgers,” John said.

Paul grinned. It was obvious that all the malice was gone from John’s voice, even though the pot of John’s anger had been left to simmer on the stove and slowly cook. He watched in reverence as John smiled back and sat on the floor to strip off his wet socks and shoes.

_If I liked boys._

\------

“Get up, you lazy sod,” John said. “We’re going to Bristol.” There was a long pause. “And also Bath, ‘cause it’s right there and we’ll get bored in Bristol.”

Paul peeled his eyes open with extreme reluctance and peered up at John. The lad was already dressed, wearing a Clash t-shirt that was far too small on him (it was probably George’s, the poor bastard) and the most disgustingly charming grin Paul had ever seen.

“Don’t point that thing at me,” Paul hissed and pulled the pillow over his head.

John laughed and Paul was relieved that he had managed to avoid the sight of it. “Come on, Macca,” he wheedled. “Birmingham is _boring_ and it’s raining again.”

He tossed the pillow onto the ground and sat up, ignoring the sudden rush of blood to his head. “One,” Paul started, “you’re in the wrong country to be complainin’ about rain. Two --and this is the really important bit, so pay attention here-- _all_ of England is boring.”

His friend rolled his eyes, but the accompanying snort was affectionate and so was the shove that nearly toppled Paul over. “Sorry, my da didn’t run off to Paris.”

“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it?” Paul asked dreamily, his mind rather suddenly focused on chocolate croissants and romantic boat rides down the Seine.

“Jus’ get up,” John said. “I promise that it’ll be nearly as fun.”

It probably wasn’t anywhere near as fun as seeing the Eiffel Tower in person, but as Paul stood in a thrift shop in Bristol and watched John try to fit his head through the hole of a jumper that read _Only Here For Country Music and Beer_ (Paul sincerely hoped that it had belonged to an American tourist who left it behind once they discovered _real_ fashion), he thought that this might be nearly as fantastic.

“Who the fuck was this made for?” John demanded, a little louder than necessary. A little old lady shopping in the next aisle over narrowed her eyes pointedly. Paul smiled apologetically and fussed over John, trying to adjust the neckline of the jumper so he could fit through.

“Y’know, if you took your glasses off, I bet it would help,” Paul said.

Paul didn’t have to see John’s face to know he was rolling his eyes. “You’re always naggin’ me about wearin’ these, an’ now you want me to take them off.”

“I’m jus’ sayin’! It _would_ help.”

“Thanks, mum,” John grumbled and wrestled the sweater off himself.

Paul took it from his hands and fiddled with the tag. “I don’t know why you thought your extra-large head would fit into a… kids’ size medium jumper anyway.”

“I’m goin’ to choose to believe that’s a compliment on how big my brain is,” John said, leaning over Paul’s shoulder to look at the tag. “An’ why the hell are they makin’ shirts about beer for kids anyway?”

“And country music,” said Paul mournfully. “The kids might _like_ it if they’re not careful.”

They bought it anyway, John claiming that he wanted to frame it and hang it on his wall in Mendips, just to annoy Mimi. Paul bought a very large, round yellow hat that looked like those things Devo wore. He thought it might flatter George’s head better than the silly beanies or cowboy hats, except that’s not really what he thought at all; he just wanted to see George’s face when Paul made him try it on.

“That’s fuckin’ hideous,” John said when Paul brought it to the line where John was waiting.

“I know,” Paul said cheerfully. “It’s perfect.”

After the thrift store, they wandered purposelessly through the streets, taking in what there was to see. A surprising amount of people were out, given that it was mid-day on a Friday, and Paul was enjoying his people-watching.

A half-naked teenager who looked suspiciously like John was standing on the edge of the dock, looking between the water and his group of friends, who seemed to be encouraging him to jump into the Avon (a remarkably bad idea). Paul instinctively reached out to his side and wrapped his hand around the inside of John’s elbow, just to make sure that the boy on the dock was indeed _not_ John.

He looked over and John was beaming and Paul had to take his hand back before it got stuck there.

One of the other boys was looking at the one who was about to jump. It was too long of a look to be casual, it was more of a _stare,_ really, and the other boy’s face turned bright pink when the boy standing on the edge of the dock winked and blew him a kiss before cannonballing into the river.

The friends all laughed and cheered when the boy surfaced from the dirty water, but the other boy just pressed a hand to his cheek and muttered something in wonder.

It was a private moment, but Paul smiled at the other boy even though he did not see. He recognized something in the boy’s actions, so sickeningly sweet and oblivious. He wondered if he had ever been like that with one of his girlfriends.

John was saying something to him.

“Sorry, what’s that?”

John flicked him between the eyes and Paul blinked hard, stunned. His friend laughed at his expression. “I asked if you want a danish, you soft lad.”

“Only soft between the ears,” Paul answered, and thought on the danish for a moment. “And only if there’s raspberry. Otherwise, get me a scone.”

John nodded obediently and trotted off to the bakery on the street corner, which was busy wafting out smells that were frankly obscene. Paul inhaled deeply and smiled to himself once again. He turned and found a place to sit on the pavement, which dropped abruptly off into the water and made him a little uneasy --John was prone to jumping on people to scare them-- but he settled there comfortably and watched with interest as the boy who had jumped in the river attempted to find a way _out_ of the said river.

It was proving to be very excellent entertainment.

“One cheese danish for our dear Macca,” John announced from behind him.

“Cheese?” Paul asked, trying to hide his disappointment as he took the warm paper bag from John’s hands. John already had his danish in his mouth, half-gone.

“Nah, it’s raspberry. I’m not as daft as you think.”

Paul shot him a fond look and unwrapped the danish, taking small bites as John wiped his hands on his pants. _Gross. Those need to go to the laundromat._

There were boats out on the water, spots of bright blue and green and white against the murky grey water and equally grey sky. Colorful anchors stopping the whole world from blending into shades of grey.

And John, too. He wasn’t faded, sitting next to Paul on the pavement with his legs dangling off the side and mouth stuffed full of danish. He was as much an anchor as the bright yellow boat out on the water, only he had fiery hair and warm skin painted on him rather than psychedelic patterns.

Paul would not have traded this for the Eiffel Tower.

“What’re you thinkin’, Macca?” John asked, tilting his head like a puppy.

“Let’s go to the Jane Austen museum,” Paul said. “I read about it. It’s in Bath.” He paused. “You like her, right? Her books?”

The open delight on John’s face was too much. Paul thought he might need to wear sunglasses next time John smiled at him, or maybe a blindfold. “Yeah, I do. I can’t believe you even know who she is.”

Paul wrinkled up his nose. “You are such an arse.”

John laughed and draped his arm around Paul’s shoulders and Paul dug his fingernails into his thigh.

They went to the Jane Austen museum and it was so boring that Paul thought he might blow his brains out right then and there, standing in the middle of Jane Austen’s kitchen. John, for his part, seemed fascinated. He was asking the tour guide dozens of questions and reading every plaque they came across, then asking the tour guide more questions. Paul thought he might climb into Austen’s old bed when they got to the room; to his relief, John was able to control himself and merely bombarded Paul with smiles and waggles of his eyebrows.

Paul could not describe his relief when they finally left the museum. It was eight, far after closing time, but one of the managers of the place had taken a liking to John and had allowed him to stay on a bit longer. _A bit_ had turned into almost four hours.

“It’s too late to go back to Birmingham,” John sighed. “Sorry about that.” He did not sound very sorry at all.

“‘S alright,” Paul said, stifling a yawn. “Let’s just get a room here.”

That proved to be easier said than done. They split up to look, John going down one street and Paul going down the other. It was nearly forty minutes before Paul had found an acceptable bed-and-breakfast. Getting the room key from the man at the front desk, Paul turned out onto the pavement to look for John. It did not take him long at all, being that his friend was only a few blocks down the street.

Ushering John to the hotel, Paul had hardly untied his shoes when he was distracted by a bottle of red wine waving in his face.

“What’ve you got now?” Paul asked, and John grinned mischievously.

“Three of these and a couple of beers. No Maris and Rod Klein at the grocery I shoplifted from. I checked.”

“Jesus Christ,” Paul sighed. He took a bottle of wine anyway.

\------

An hour after John had shaken the bottle in Paul’s face, there was nothing left in the bottle to shake. There were also multiple other... _unshakable_ bottles. Paul was clutching one and trying to remember the lyrics to _Mamma Mia_ while John repeatedly dialed the number for a restaurant down the street, trying to order two grilled cheese sandwiches. He was not having much luck, considering the place was called _Just Pho You._

“Mamma mia, here I go again… my my, just how much I missed you…”

“ _How can I resist you?_ comes first,” John said from across the room, a little more loudly than necessary. “My my, _how can I resist you?_ ”

“I don’t know, how can you?” Paul asked, grinning at his joke and waving his bottle about in the air. He completely missed the shocked look on John’s face and his response, being that he was preoccupied with spilling the red wine on himself.

“Dunno, sometimes,” John muttered, and then barked into the phone, “I told you, we jus’ need two grilled cheese sandwiches!” A long pause. “ _Everyone_ makes grilled cheese! You don’t have a kids menu or somethin’?”

Paul was not envious of anyone who had to deal with John as a customer. Of course, one could say that John, sober, was a fine customer. However, the one saying that would be wrong.

“Yeeeees, I’ve been brokenhearted… blue since the…” He frowned. _Blue since the…_ Paul couldn’t remember. He glared at the empty bottle of wine with open contempt. Damn alcohol, making him stupid and sluggish and unable to remember ABBA lyrics from the year he was born.

“Day we parted,” offered John, returning from the phone and snatching the bottle from Paul’s hand. Paul grabbed for it, but John ignored him, finishing off what little remained of it.

“That was mine,” Paul pouted, but his complaints fell on deaf ears.

John leaned back against the side of the bed and closed his eyes. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and Paul could see the individual shadows of his eyelashes, cast dark on his cheekbones by the overhead light. He was the world’s most tormented angel, with his brow furrowed and the frown curling the corners of his lips downward. Paul wondered if John knew he was beautiful. No. Two things stood in the way of that.

One, John was so insecure he would never admit to being beautiful. Two, Paul wasn’t supposed to notice things like that.

He wasn’t _supposed_ to do a lot of things, and yet he felt himself slipping. Sometimes it was just a little mistake, like looking at a man on the street and noticing how well his shoulders filled out his shirt. Paul could pretend that these things were not real, were just things that occurred to him, and faded away. _Anyone would have looked at that man and noticed,_ he told himself. And he let it pass by.

But Paul could not let other things pass by. The way the hair on the back of his neck stood up when John threw his arm around his shoulders; how when John woke up wrapped around his legs, often with his face nestled into the meat of Paul’s calf, it left Paul’s skin feeling soft and warm and like something precious. The curve of John’s collarbone. The way his hair curled around the lobes of his ears and the nape of his neck.

He did not know how he had gotten here. It reminded him of the time he had dug out a hole in the garden when he was seven, intent on burying a sparrow that had smashed into the glass of the front window. Paul had dug and dug and dug, unsure of the depth required for the grave of a mere bird. He had looked up and the sun was setting and he was nearly three feet into the ground.

Paul was digging himself a hole much deeper than three feet. And the thing inside the hole was gaping, hungry, intent on eating Paul alive and taking anything else it could get with it; ripping the skin off his flesh to reveal what lay beneath but all he knew was _he couldn’t._

It just wasn’t the way Paul was. Paul could get any girl in town _and out of town and probably in America if he winked at the letter just right,_ or so he had been told his whole life. John was not a girl, and that was why he didn’t wink at John in that way. He didn’t wink at any man in that way, even if he wanted to, which he didn’t. _He couldn’t._

“I can,” John said, and Paul’s head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

“ _What?_ ”

John’s bemused expression made the thing living in the hole pull harder at his skin, and Paul put his hands on his forearms to reassure himself it was still there. “Asked if you want me to apologize for earlier,” he said, wringing the neck of the wine bottle like it was a chicken’s.

Paul shuddered and tightened his grip on his arms. “‘S fine,” he said. “You didn’t mean it and neither did I.”

John hummed in response, but he didn’t look away from Paul. He was trying to catch Paul’s eyes again, and Paul knew he shouldn’t, that it would only encourage the thing in the pit. But he raised his head anyway and met John’s eyes. Drank in the warmth of them.

“What are you lookin’ for?” Paul asked softly. Just to have something to say, outside of _if I liked boys_ or _if things were different_ or _if I could tell myself the truth._

Paul was a liar at his core and he hated to admit it but he could not tell himself or anyone else the truth. The truth was a terrible and wicked thing and it curled around his heart like some sort of anaconda, but he was also brave and he could keep it to himself. He _would_ keep it to himself.

“My da,” John said, the bemused expression deepening. “How drunk are you, Paulie? Should I take this away?”

_Paulie_ made him shake his head like he was trying to get water out of his ears. Thoughts out of his head. He sighed. “I mean _with_ Alf,” he said, wondering if he was overstepping his boundaries. “What do you want from him?”

John tilted his head and considered the question. “I think… I think I’m looking for him because he loved me at one point, y’know? Jus’ like he loved Julia. An’ he probably remembers Julia better than me, back when I was small. I jus’ want to know the truth of their whole thing. Like, whether she ever really…” He paused and peered into the empty bottle, swirling nonexistent liquid around.

“I know,” said Paul. “You don’t hafta say.”

“I know,” said John.

Paul wondered if John would let him do it again. Touch his face; his lips and his jaw. He reached out and then settled his hand on his shin and pulled his knees up to his chest. An aborted gesture that he hoped John didn’t notice.

He didn’t seem to. But then John set the bottle down on the ground again, just like last time, and he reached out. Took Paul’s hands in his own and simply held them there, then pressed his forehead to the backs after a few moments.

It hurt so badly, but Paul craved the pain like he craved oxygen, and he scooted forward.

They stayed like that for what simultaneously seemed like an eternity and only a few seconds, but then Paul felt the gentle brush of John’s lips against his knuckles and he snatched his hands back so fast he nearly hit John in the face. _Oh, good God, this is getting all too real,_ he thought, planting his palms on either side of himself and staring at John.

He looked bewildered and offended and more than a little sad. It all hurt. Paul could feel it in the very marrow of his bones.

“Sorry,” John muttered.

Paul rushed to reassure him. “No, no, I’m sorry,” he said, even though it wasn’t true. He couldn’t be sorry because _what would that make him?_ “Jus’ startled me, is all.”

But he didn’t offer his hands back, and they didn’t talk about Alf and Julia anymore. John just laid flat on his stomach and pressed his face against the grotty carpet, talking in a diminished voice about one of those metal bands he liked.

Paul stared at the space where John had been sitting and tried not to feel the burn on the back of his hands where John had kissed. The worst part was that he had wanted… _no._

He could not want. But he did, and _that_ was the worst part: he wanted John and in the light of day, when his brain wasn’t quite so fuzzy from wine, he would never be able to admit it to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!! I'm quite proud of how this one turned out, although I was worried it was a tad filler-y at first. Let me know what you think in the comments... I'm getting rather excited about the next few chapters. 
> 
> Which might be a little slow due to school starting back up, sitting in front of a camera for hours is surprisingly exhausting.
> 
> As usual, thank you to mossintheconcrete for beta-ing, and you can find me at flightofthebluealiens on Tumblr if you'd like to chat or just look through my array of nonsense posts. I hope everyone is doing well :)


	6. Swindon, Or: Secrecy & Stupidity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul bathes in hate: his feelings for John, phone books, and the Lemonheads.
> 
> The author reckons he might be getting a tad dramatic.

Paul woke up on the floor of a motel in Bath, listening to the rain tap its dainty knuckles on the roof, and swore himself to secrecy. Despite his best attempts, he remembered the thoughts and events of the previous night. And he could have swept them under the rug and thrown the broom away, but then Paul looked at John.

Drool dripped out of John’s open mouth onto the carpet, and he smelled like body odor and cigarettes and the contents of an entire brewery, but Paul couldn’t help smiling. He was lucky he was sitting down because his knees had turned to jelly.

So he swore himself to secrecy. If anyone asked, he did not have feelings for John. And even if nobody at all asked, he didn’t.

But wasn’t it all a lie? He had lied about John, to John, so many times by now. And he didn’t know how much longer he could hold in this secret. _But I have to,_ he reminded himself. It sounded hollow, even to himself; a favourite song repeated so many times that all the emotion and love had been sucked out of it.

His stomach churned dangerously. Aftereffects of alcohol, of course.

He went to take a shower, hoping that the hot water would wash the guilt off his skin.

\------

Secrecy was proving to be quite difficult. Mainly because he wanted John to kiss his hands again, but also because Swindon was the most boring city ( _town_ , it couldn’t even rightly be called a city) of all time and he thought he might pry his toenails out one-by-one before he came back here. His inner turmoil might liven the place up a little.

Paul tuned back into whatever John was saying. He didn’t think he could meet his eyes. He wondered if John had been awake when Paul touched him that morning, the same way he was when it was the other way around. He wondered if John had reached to touch the spot the same way Paul did.

No. John had been so far gone he was drooling, and anyway, John wasn’t _perverted_ like Paul.

“--and I know it was ages ago, but d’you remember when that landlord in Manchester said it started with an S? Well, I figured it might be Swindon or somethin’.”

“That’s just ‘cause you can’t think of any more places that start with S,” Paul said, hardly listening but never passing up the chance to make fun of his friend.

“Fuck off,” John said happily and handed him another phone book.

They had been at this for hours. Paul’s arse was falling asleep in the chair he was sitting in. He didn’t even know arses could _do_ that, and yet it was happening. This trip was full of surprises. John had looked in the phone book in the motel room, promptly found the nearest library, and dragged Paul there so that they could look through even more phone books.

“You know there’s only one correct phone book, right?” Paul had asked. “All the others are outdated. The one in the motel was correct.”

“Yeah, but what if it wasn’t,” John had responded stubbornly, and pulled at the sleeve of Paul’s sweatshirt until he reluctantly trailed after his friend.

_It’s impossible,_ Paul mused as he watched John snicker over the name ‘Laurence Adcox.’ And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it?

So Paul _could_ admit his feelings for John. But he couldn’t act on them, because they were a _secret_ and they were supposed to be a secret even from Paul himself, so _why the hell am I thinking about this right now?_ Paul rubbed his temples.

His headache was mainly fueled by his hangover, true, but also by the handsome tosser sitting across from him, drawing a plus sign and a penis next to the name Adcox.

“Glad you’re putting that education to good use,” Paul said, flipping another page.

“At least Mimi’s money isn’t completely wasted.” John sketched out a vein.

“Tell her you’re dropping out to draw porn, see what she says.”

John rolled his eyes. The fed-up expression on his face was so endearing Paul wished he had a camera. “That’s already what she thinks my figure drawings are,” he said with obvious contempt. “She doesn’t seem to understand that you need to practice drawing _everything,_ because the human body is a part of life, right? An’ it’s an important part of an artist’s repertoire. It’s serious work.” As he talked, John busied himself with drawing semen.

The corner of Paul’s mouth twitched. “Very serious.”

He found _L_ in the phone book and scanned the page, frowning as he searched for Lennon. There was _Lebson & Sons Electrical Company, Martin Lebson_ (whether he was the Lebson or the Son, Paul did not know), _Rachel Lensherr…_ There were only three Lennons, called James, Erica, and Madge.

“You don’t happen to know a James, an Erica, or a Madge?”

John looked up, raising an eyebrow. “I hope not,” he said. “Knowin’ a Madge would completely ruin my reputation.”

Paul feigned offense. “Oi, you take that back, one of my aunties is named Madge.”

“Is she ancient, then?”

“Only mildly,” Paul admitted and savoured John’s responding chuckle. “And it doesn’t matter anyway, ‘cause this is from 1982.”

John argued, “They might still live here.”

“Why don’t you check a phone book from this decade,” Paul said, closing the book and shoving it across the table at John.

“That would be too obvious.” John waggled his eyebrows at Paul and grinned. “If the aliens took my da, they would hide the evidence in a phone book from--” --John paused to check the date on the one he was holding-- “--1985, not 1992.” He scoffed. “Too obvious.”

“I think it’s obvious you’re soft in the head.” Paul bit his lip and grinned back.

John knocked his knuckles against his head and shrugged. “Not yet. Might be hollow though.”

“The aliens did that, too,” Paul said, and his heart jumped traitorously when John laughed. A librarian shushed them from across the room.

\------

“Come on, you haven’t even heard them before!” John put a hand in the middle of Paul’s back, successfully managing to propel Paul forward, even if the propelling was because Paul had nearly jumped out of his skin at the touch. “You might like the song.”

“If I can even hear it over your screamin’,” Paul muttered, and John jabbed him in the ribs good-naturedly, herding Paul into the little listening room. They were wandering through a record store since Paul had insisted they take a break from the phone books. Although John had complained, he could tell John was relieved.

John closed the door behind them, and they were nearly chest-to-chest as John put the single on the little record player. “I promise it’s good,” he was saying, but Paul was too busy watching his hands to pay much attention. John had such lovely hands, with long fingers and big, knobbly puppy knuckles and Paul thought he might add them to the long list of things that John would never realize were beautiful about himself.

“ _I’ve never been too good with names,_ ” John mouthed along, “ _the cellar door was open, I could never stay away._ ” He grinned at Paul and bobbed his head to the beat.

Paul closed his eyes to block out John and simply listen to the track. It was okay, he supposed, nothing special… your standard radio-hit rock song. The opening guitar riff had been interesting, but it all faded into the background once the singer started his rounds. Paul thought that the vocals weren’t particularly uniq--

John’s hip bumped harshly into his and Paul’s eyes flew open. He glared at John, who was smiling from ear to ear. It wasn’t very easy to glare at John when he was smiling, so Paul abandoned the effort.

“ _It’s a shaaaaame about Ray,_ ” John sang, far more of a croon than the real singer, and standing far too close to Paul. “What do you think, Macca?”

“Borin’,” Paul said and snickered when John’s face dropped. “No, no, it’s fine. He’s no Michael Stipe or Morrissey or anythin’.”

John rolled his eyes and poked Paul hard on the arm. “Not everyone can have the most unique voice in the whole wide world,” he said dryly, and Paul poked him back harder.

The song wasn’t very long, but John milked it, swinging his hips around and purposefully knocking into Paul, singing along and making up words where he didn’t know them.

“You know they’ve got a lyric booklet in here, right?” Paul asked.

“ _Paul needs to go away, it’s a shaaaaame about Ray._ ”

Paul scoffed and whacked his friend with the record sleeve, or as much as you could whack somebody with some flimsy paper-cardboard junk. The song ended and he was left staring at a positively beaming John, who promptly took the sleeve from Paul and tucked the record back inside without putting on side two.

“I think I’m goin’ to nick this,” he said cheerfully.

“Not surprised,” Paul muttered. “Haven’t you got this record?”

“Yeah, but now you’re goin’ to have a copy.”

“Honestly, I don’t like it enough for that.”

John tilted his head at Paul, giving him that exasperated look that always made Paul smile, with his mouth all tilted down at one corner and one eyebrow raised. “Yeah, but I want to nick somethin’.”

“Christ,” Paul said, and did his best not to smile because that would just encourage him.

They came out of the listening room, John ducking behind a row of records to pretend to put the single back. Paul flipped through terrible British pop records and tried not to look at John stuffing the record, and by extension his hand, down the front of his trousers.

It was pathetic that he had gone from being in complete and utter denial about his feelings to getting goosebumps over a mere touch on his back in less than twenty-four hours. Maybe it was just all spilling out at once, like the Mount Vesuvius of emotion. He had seen John put his hand down the front of his trousers a million times, _especially_ to relieve poor unsuspecting music shops of their records, and now Paul was blushing over it. God, he was acting like a schoolgirl.

Paul pulled a copy of that Blur record off the shelf (it had come out a year ago, and he had been surprised to find that he liked it) and mindlessly studied the tracklisting. He didn’t know when he had gotten so soft. It was probably directly connected with admitting he was a queer; he wondered if the instant you realized you liked a bloke you immediately went soft.

He looked up at John. His friend was waggling his eyebrows manically and waving a near-pristine copy of _Meat is Murder_ like he had just found the fucking golden ticket for Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

_Maybe it’s just if it’s John._

\------

The night was cold and Paul woke up alone in bed, reaching out for John and meeting only empty sheets. He panicked for a moment before remembering that John was sleeping on the floor, and then peered over the edge of the mattress, only to find that he was not there either. Paul sat up and squinted into the dark.

John had said he was too hot to sleep in the bed with Paul, but it was freezing even in the bed.

He heard the toilet flush and sighed in relief as John reappeared, only to quickly do a one-eighty when he saw the look on John’s face.

He was obviously upset by something, although whether he was angry or sad or _what_ was difficult to tell in the low light. Paul reached over and flicked on the bedside lamp. “Are you okay?”

“Jus’ fine,” John said, but he sounded blank and emotionless.

“Come on, you can tell me if somethin’s wrong,” Paul said. “What’s goin’ on?”

“I’ve jus’ been thinkin’,” John said, making his way back to his blankets in the dark. Paul wanted to toss him another pillow, but he waited, watching John settle down. “Y’know, about Stoke.”

Something in Paul’s gut twisted and he grabbed two fistfuls of the sheet beneath him. _This emotion really isn’t any better when you know it’s jealousy,_ he thought, and frowned. John was looking at him with those squinty eyes that were a _test_ , and Paul knew that, and he just couldn’t help himself.

“What, thinkin’ about the guy you fucked?” Paul snapped before he could stop himself.

John, to his credit, actually looked surprised. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he responded. His words were slow, like he was talking to a dangerous animal. “Who said I fucked him?”

Paul scoffed, gripping the sheets even tighter. “Y’know that’s all but confirmation, right?”

“Okay, and?” John’s tone didn’t change. Non-confrontational. It was making Paul feel very confrontational. “Why do you even care? ‘S not like I was shovin’ it in your face.”

“Yes, you _were_ ,” hissed Paul. “It was _obvious._ D’you think I wanna know who you’re fuckin’?”

John’s jaw tightened. He paused for a moment before responding; it was a pause that felt like an eternity. “It wasn’t obvious unless you were _lookin’_ for it,” he said, and there was finally, _finally_ something confrontational in his tone of voice. Something accusatory. It lit Paul’s blood on fire. “And you didn’t answer my question. _Why do you care?_ ”

“ _Did you even know his fuckin’ name?_ ” screamed Paul. His palm slammed painfully against the bedside table, but it was distant, far-off. He did it again, chasing the feeling. “You let a stranger _fuck you up the arse._ What if he had given you HIV or somethin’? What if he had, I don’t know, _murdered_ you? Do you ever think about the consequences of your actions?”

“His name was Rod, you utter cunt,” John hissed, and God, _there he was._

Paul’s lip curled in disgust and anger, and he almost backed down, but then he envisioned the man sucking that dark spot on John’s jaw and all he could do was reach up and try to pull his hair out. “God, you’re so _fuckin’ stupid_ ,” he breathed.

“ _I’m_ the stupid one? Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me right now?”

“Yeah, obviously you’re the stupid one! You had to get your dick wet, so you slept with _one of your da’s old friends._ Did that not strike you as even a _little_ odd?” Feeling particularly bitter, and unable to stop himself, Paul added: “You look _so much like him…_ Do you think your _da_ ever let Rod fuck him?”

John shot to his feet faster than Paul even knew he could move, and before he had time to react, John had a fist in the front of his shirt. Their noses were nearly touching. “ _You don’t talk about my da like that,_ ” John hissed, and Paul could feel John’s breath on his cheeks. “Do you understand me, Paul? You don’t say _shit_ about him.”

Paul’s nostrils flared and he was about to say something back, but then he saw. John’s eyes were red and puffy, and the hand holding Paul’s shirt was trembling. He looked pathetic and it tore through all of Paul’s organs. Paul was only able to hold John’s gaze for a few moments before, feeling like a kicked puppy, he averted his eyes.

“Yes, I understand,” he whispered, and John let go of Paul’s shirt with a shaky breath.

Retreating to the floor, John looked cowed, even though he had been the one to win. Paul gnawed at one of his fingernails and watched John calm himself down, taking deep breaths and wiping repeatedly at his eyes

“Why _did_ you sleep with him?” Paul asked, trying to make his voice softer. He was still angry, so angry, but… well, he couldn’t stay properly mad at John for very long.

John didn’t respond, rubbing his palms over his thighs.

“John?”

“Paul.”

“Why did you sleep with that guy?”

John looked up at him, narrowing his eyes. “You really don’t know?”

“Of course not? Why would I know?” Paul’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to think of sometime when John had explained his attraction to forty-year-old ex-sailors.

His friend just frowned.

There was a long pause, and then Paul sighed and said “come on, just tell me.”

“God, don’t make me say it, Paul.”

Paul threw his hands up in the air, leaning back on his pillows. “I’m jus’ tryin’ to understand, okay? Jus’ tell me why.”

When he looked up, he was surprised to see that John’s eyes were wet. His knees were clutched to his chest like a little kid might do, and he wouldn’t meet Paul’s eyes. He looked down at his bare feet like they were the most interesting thing in the world.

“Come on,” Paul said, even softer than before. “You know I won’t be mad or anythin’.”

John scoffed, but it was too wet and scared to be a real scoff. “I _don’t_ know that.”

“I could never be mad at you over somethin’ like this.”

His friend looked up at him with barely-concealed curiosity, then shook his head and looked back at his feet. “I can’t tell you.”

“Please? Come on, I promise I won’t get mad!”

John glared at him as though he had said something wrong.

“Johnny,” Paul sighed.

Then something seemed to break behind John’s eyes, and he blurted out: “He looked like you.”

There was a very loaded moment of silence in the room. John refused to look at Paul, gripping his ankles like life preservers. Paul was staring and his mouth was hanging open and he knew he looked daft, but he couldn’t think to close it.

“He looked like me,” Paul said stupidly.

John sniffled.

“What do you mean, he looked like me?”

_What do you mean, because you can’t possibly mean what I think you mean, what I want it to mean, this can’t be happening it is not supposed to be this way it is a_ secret--

“I never thought you would want what I want,” said John quietly, defenseless.

Paul buried his face in his hands. “I _don’t_ , John,” he whispered. His throat was filled with needles and sand and cut glass. “I _can’t_.”

And then there was more silence. It was a heavy, long silence, and Paul was thinking he might choke on the weight of it; a vice grip crushing his ribcage so that he couldn’t breathe, and his heart was trapped within and he could feel it breaking. Because _God, wasn’t he the stupid one?_

“Okay,” John said, his voice thick with tears. “I’m sorry I said anythin’.”

“John,” Paul said hopelessly and sat up on his elbows to peer over the side of the bed. But John was turned away from him, curled up on his side with that flimsy blanket tossed over himself, and he would not look at Paul. 

The whole world was melting around them.

He could hear muffled sobs and see John’s shoulders shake, but Paul was shaking just as badly and he thought if he touched John neither of them would ever stop. So he laid on his side, one twitchy hand clutching the pillow under his head and the other up by his face. Paul tasted blood when he chewed his ragged fingernails.

The sobs were quieting but Paul could not look away. Would not.

“I was talkin’ about the pottery in Stoke, jus’ so you know, arsehole,” John whimpered over his shoulder. _Whimpered. Oh, God._ All the fight was completely gone from his voice.

And then the room went quiet for the night. Or as quiet as it could be, with John’s unsteady breathing and Paul’s roaring thoughts.

Something had wrapped itself around the center of his being when John said _he looked like you,_ and the thing had needles on the ends of its fingers and it was digging in deeper and deeper.

_Tell the truth for once._

It had wrapped itself around him long ago.

\------

“No. Yeah. No.”

 _God, just give me some real answers,_ Paul thought, listening to John’s monosyllabic responses. _Just show me you’re not still angry._

But of course, John was still angry. He had every right to be, and Paul knew it, but some irrational and foolish part of Paul had been hoping John would wake up with amnesia or something. Wake up wrapped around Paul’s legs and beam at him when he thought Paul wasn’t looking ( _how did I not notice that?_ ) and waggle his eyebrows and wrestle with him and--

_But you’re the one who ruined that,_ Paul reminded himself. His whole body seemed to itch.

They were picking up a gas can for the motorbike, and John stared blankly at the split linoleum tile beneath their feet. He wasn’t even glancing at Paul.

_Just look at me,_ Paul pleaded with him silently. _Let me know you’re still in there._

But John did not look up from the ground, and he didn’t say more than five words to Paul over the course of the next hour. He disappeared out of the motel room while Paul was in the bathroom.

\------

_Anything to stop thinking about John,_ Paul told himself as he opened the door to the telephone booth, and embraced the wave of shame and anger that washed over him at the thought. He almost wanted it. Anything to prove that he could still _feel,_ that he wasn’t completely heartless.

Disconnected from his body, he watched as his fingers slid the coins into the slot. The fingers of a ghost, or the husk of what was once a man. _If I was ever a man,_ some disgusting, disgusted part of his brain told him, and he put his mental cigarette out on its palm and listened to it howl.

He dialed his father’s number and waited.

It had hardly rung twice when the phone was answered. “Jim McCartney speaking.”

“Hey, da,” Paul said. “It’s me.”

“Paul!” Jim said, practically exclaimed. It was probably the most enthusiasm that Paul had ever heard in his dad’s voice before. “Where are you? How are you doin’? Still standin’?”

He forced a smile. “Yeah, not sittin’ in the telephone booth yet. We’re down south,” Paul said. It seemed childish now; that he would concern himself with making sure his father could not come to retrieve him from Swindon when _he was a fag and it was for John and he had yelled at John until he cried._

“Ah. Any news about John’s da?” Jim asked.

“No. We’re heading to London soon,” Paul said because he was right and it didn’t make sense to keep that sort of thing carefully hidden. _Not like he’ll find us anyway, in downtown London._

Hesitation.

“How are you doin’?” Jim repeated, and Paul felt like the tape on their conversation had been rewinded, spun back over so that the voices were distorted and the instruments were hardly audible at all. What was the point? Why had he called anyway?

“Not great.” 

His honesty surprised him. Maybe he _could_ change. Stop being fearful and a liar and a coward.

_You threw that away when you told him you didn’t want him,_ a voice hissed in his head, curling around his eardrums and squeezing. _That was a lie, wasn’t it? You’re just as bad as before, and now you’re a liar and a poof--_

“What’s happened, then?” Jim asked, sounding a little more concerned than Paul would’ve expected. 

Paul could hear the kettle boiling in the background and the drone of the telly. He was pretty sure it was a Saturday. Mike was probably watching Saturday morning cartoons; the only reason his little brother would rise before noon on a day off school. He could picture Mike sitting on the floor in front of the couch (he never sat on it, which puzzled Paul and irritated Jim) with his bowl of cornflakes, slurping down the milk and watching Looney Tunes reruns. Jim sitting in his reclining armchair, the newspaper held up so that you couldn’t see his face and his mug of tea disappearing behind it every so often.

A surge of homesickness hit him like an earthquake. He put his hand on the wall of the telephone booth, even though it was dirty and glass and covered in germs, and leaned on it. Paul was weak at the present moment and he thought a strong gust of emotion might have carried him off into the sky like Mary Poppins’ sad gay cousin.

“Paul?” Oh, yes. His father.

“We’ve just been fightin’,” Paul choked out. He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. “Me and John aren’t gettin’ along as well as usual.”

“Well, that comes with road trips.”

Paul frowned, opening one eye. “You’ve been on a road trip?”

He could practically see Jim’s one-shouldered shrug, a trait that both he and Mike had inherited.

Paul fumbled in his pocket for more coins to drop into the slot and waited.

“Only once,” Jim said. “When I was a bit older than you. My bes’ friend and I drove to Edinburgh when we were twenty because he thought he had gotten his brother’s girlfriend pregnant, and we thought she had run off to Scotland.”

Paul blinked slowly. _Christ, that’s a lot to take in at once, innit?_ “Huh?”

Jim laughed into the phone and Paul clutched it with both hands as though it was a lifeline, rather than a phone line. “You heard me. It was not an enjoyable trip.”

“So let me get this straight: your best friend’s… _brother’s… girlfriend_ was pregnant, so _you_ went with him to get her back from _Scotland_?”

“Yes,” Jim said, voice still carrying that unfamiliar amusement. “And we argued the whole time, about everythin’. Where to sleep, the kind of gas to buy, what music to put on… It only took three days, but I swear it was the longest three days of my entire life.”

_If only all we had to argue about was what music to put on,_ Paul thought and raised his fingers to his mouth to chew his nails. “Were you alright afterward?”

“We made up a half dozen times and then stopped fightin’ ‘cause we were both too tired to argue anymore. An’ when we got to Edinburgh, she wasn’t even there. Had already skipped town. So we went back home, and we were closer than ever before.”

A long pause. Paul held his breath.

“I don’t think you can spend that long with somebody,” Jim said quietly, as though he didn’t want Mike to hear, “without figurin’ it all out. Maybe you and John will come to an understandin’ if you talk it through. That’s what me and Lewis did.”

And it felt like Paul’s father could see into his chest and read the words printed on his heart. He let out his breath slowly and wrestled with the idea of telling Jim everything.

Maybe his father would accept him. Tell him that life was too short to be afraid and give him his blessing or whatever to go after John. But there was another part of Paul that knew that his father had grown up in the fifties and sixties, knew Jim had relentlessly mocked people like David Bowie when he was Paul’s age. So what would he think of his son, the poster child for heterosexuality, falling in love with his best mate?

_Not love. God._

“Paul? Paul, are you still there?”

“Yes, yeah, sorry,” Paul said dazedly. He felt as though his eyeballs were being pushed out of their sockets by his brain, oozing out of his skull. Well, he really just wanted to throw up until his stomach was empty, and hope his head was empty by the end too.

“You seem distracted,” Jim said. “Why don’t you call me back later, yes?”

“Okay,” Paul said. The wind was roaring and he was floating up, up into the air, coasting on fear and exhaustion and shame. His fingertips shook against his lips.

“Good luck, son,” Jim told him, and then hung up. The line went dead in Paul’s ear and he listened to the phone buzz. Static on the radio.

Hanging up, he turned and exited the phone booth. When he returned to the motel room, John was asleep in the bed. Facing the wall, one pillow under his head and one trapped between his arms and legs, the blanket tossed over him.

Paul watched the sunlight hit John’s hair and light it like fire. He wondered how he could have been so tragically stupid, but that seemed to be their destiny. Tragic and stupid.

Looking at John’s back, covered in freckles, molded from melted gold in the morning light, his hands ached for a guitar. He deserved songs dedicated to him, not the disjointed phrases that rushed from Paul’s mind. All born of anger and fear and cowardice.

_I wish I had taken that man’s place in Stoke, and I wish you knew the way my chest tightens when I think of you with him, the way my fingers shake and my mouth goes dry. I hated him and I hated you for being with him because I thought you were mine even when I didn’t know I wanted you to be. Mostly, I hate myself for the way I have thought of you and treated you, and the way I think of myself still. I fear this. I fear you, and what I want from you._

_Are you still mine, if I want you? I lied when I said I didn’t… y’know, want you, and all that. I think you already know that. And can you forgive me without a true apology? If I apologize, it won’t be true, because I am a liar and I will always be a liar but if you are mine then I can be okay with lies. Lies can be ours, and maybe I could teach you to lie or you could teach me to be brave because you didn’t look back once when you were with that man and I would be looking over my shoulder every other minute if I had you._

_When are you going to realize that I cannot have you? When will_ I?

His tormented angel snuffled in his sleep and Paul had to shut his eyes.

Paul had always perceived John as the wretched one. He had wanted to live in a world where he was the golden boy, the water to John’s fire; but now the water was boiling and they were two of the same, high-strung and emotionally tumultuous and any of the other descriptors that John seemed to collect like pins.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle John. It was okay to indulge himself, just this once, right? Just this once and then he would be careful to never do anything else and he could properly apologize to John, and they could be friends and nothing would ever be wrong again. Paul told himself this as he reached out, slowly, surely…

Pressed his fingers into the soft part of John’s calf and sighed in painful relief before he drew quickly away.

_I don’t want this to be the way I have to touch you,_ one half of his brain said.

The other half said: _shut the hell up, you pansy, and go cry in the bathroom._

_Both excellent points,_ Paul thought and shut himself in the bathroom to rub his fingers against his cheek as he wept. Cor, he was truly off his rocker now; this was all John’s fault.

_No,_ he hissed at himself. _It’s yours._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, and thank you for your comments... they really keep me going!! This fic has been pretty much the longest (and _only_ ) undertaking of mine to date, as of the writing world, and I'm really enjoying it thus far. Creative juices haven't quite dried up yet, and I'm planning some other fics for the future (both Beatles and non-Beatles related, so if you're into Marvel or the like, that's something to look out for).
> 
> Updated from teen to mature considering some of the language and views expressed.
> 
> Come talk to me on Tumblr at flightofthebluealiens! And, as always, thank you to my darlin mossintheconcrete for beta-ing this disaster of wannabe literature-- and for the chapter title.


	7. London, Or: The Great Gatsby and Other Metaphors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission is accomplished.

_Open your mouth and say something, like how sorry you are and how much you wish you didn’t say the_ previous _something, which was quite stupid._

John was crouched on the ground, tinkering with the motorbike’s engine or something. Paul wasn’t sure what exactly the problem was, as he was more focused on apologizing, which was going about as poorly as the engine-tinkering based on the colorful string of words pouring out of John’s mouth.

_I am good at talking,_ Paul reminded himself, feeling like a bit of a wimp. _I talk to Mike and Da and George… and also people who are not my family or my best mate. I talk perfectly well to_ them.

“Fuckin’ buggering pipe’--”

_Cor, it’s just John. Suck it up._

Paul sucked it up and opened his mouth to say something, and promptly made an odd high-pitched noise that resembled that made by a salad spinner. John turned to peer over his shoulder at Paul, looking at him as though he had suddenly turned bright green.

“What?”

Paul stared at him. _I can’t catch a goddamn break._ He tried again, but he had lost his nerve, and his mouth seemed only to be able to open and shut.

John raised his eyebrows and turned back to the bike, continuing his prodding at it; Paul would have knocked himself about the head if he hadn’t thought that might put John even further off talking to him.

He shoved his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt and sulked, thinking of what his da had said over the phone. _Maybe you and John will come to an understanding if you talk it through._

_Easier said than done,_ Paul thought bitterly. _Clearly, I’ve lost the ability to talk, much less through._

Perhaps this would have gone better had he planned it out first.

Well, simple enough, he would plan it out first… _John, I just wanted to say that I’m very sorry, and it’s not you, it’s me…_ Christ, he sounded like a cliche! Paul frowned, shaking his head a little. Like clearing an Etch-a-Sketch. _John, I didn’t mean it like that…_ okay, blatant lying wasn’t much better.

Paul took a deep breath. Okay. _John, I’m sorry I said that the day before yesterday. Uh, all the parts of it, ‘cause I really shouldn’t have talked about your da like that but I also shouldn’t have told you that I didn’t like you when I do--_

Sweet Jesus. Paul buried his face in his hands and groaned.

“What?” John repeated, and Paul took his hands away from his face to see John getting to his feet. His hands were streaked with black.

It was oddly endearing.

His brain needed a reset; he was gaping at John once again. At least this time, John was sort of… well, smirking? Was it a smirk? Paul was definitely overthinking it. But _was_ it?

“You look like a fish,” John said and climbed on the bike.

Paul stared at the spot where John had just been for a few moments before he grinned and climbed on behind John. _Five whole words._ That was the longest sentence John had said to him in the last twenty-four hours.

They had spent those twenty-four hours dancing around each other, and it wasn’t even a good dance. If it had been a real dance, it might have been the sort of spectacle that occurred when a bored thirteen-year-old girl attempted to learn the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy on a Thursday evening; Paul imagined himself falling over in a tutu and wrinkled his nose up.

Anyway, it was a disaster. Paul wasn’t exactly surprised that he had gone and ruined things, but he might have thought it would be under different circumstances. Discovering his homosexual desire for one of his best mates was not the most expected of plot twists.

When they arrived in London, John promptly dumped Paul at the motel and took off on the motorbike again. The rejection was not unexpected but Paul found it in himself to be offended anyway.

Sulking in the motel room seemed like the best plan of attack, and he did so with pleasure (well, as much pleasure as one could have while sulking in a motel room). He collapsed into the hard armchair tucked into the corner of the room, sighing and tossing the motel key on the bed. _When did I become an accessory on this trip?_

_You’ve always been an accessory,_ he reminded himself. _He just thinks you’re acting like a wanker now._

Paul was getting rather tired of Responsible Paul being all logical and shite in his head. He sounded like George, but much less sympathetic.

Maybe he should call George. Putting his hand in the pocket of his mac, Paul went searching for coins and was puzzled when his hand met some sort of sticky, plasticky material. _Huh._

Paul retracted his hand from his pocket and felt his breath catch in his throat when he realized that it was John’s chocolate wrapper from Birmingham.

He stared at the purple-and-gold wrapper, lying crinkled in his hand. Birmingham felt like an eternity ago now, even though it had only been… what, three days ago? Four? They had argued over such an inconsequential thing, that whole fake-meat thing. Paul should’ve sucked it up and ordered chips, and looking back, he would order chips for every meal for the rest of the trip if it meant John would forgive him.

It was such a stupid thing he had done, to push John away like that. He should’ve just said that he didn’t feel the same way, and then they could’ve gone back to normal after some temporary awkwardness. _Should’ve, could’ve._ Of course, in the best version of the conversation, he didn’t have feelings for John at all and they had simply gone back to being friends after John had grabbed hold of him.

And of course, that wasn’t the _best_ version. In the ultimate one, he had told John that he felt the same way, and then there had been a spectacularly romantic and dramatic kiss, like a scene out of _Romeo and Juliet_ or something.

Paul didn’t know. He hadn’t done his homework on the reading of _Romeo and Juliet_ in year 10. You would have to ask John about that one.

He blinked away tears and took a deep breath, smoothing the candy wrapper out with his fingertips. The fact of the matter was that he had to apologize to John; no doubt about it. How to go about it was much more complicated.

John wouldn’t be impressed by Paul gaping at him again, or any chocolate or flowers or the like. Paul could practically hear him already: _I’m not a fuckin’ bird, why would I give a shite about a rose--_ John would make him take the bus back to Liverpool for that one.

Staring at the chocolate wrapper, he suddenly had an idea.

John had apologized to him for the argument about vegetarianism with some fake meat. So maybe Paul could go out and find him something he loved, like a good book or something. And he could apologize, and give it to him, and everything would be all right in the end.

The only problem with the plan was that John had so many books it was impossible to tell which he might already have… well, Paul would wing it. Hopefully, John would appreciate the thought; he wouldn’t be angry with Paul anymore and things could go back to normal.

So Paul folded up the candy wrapper and tucked it in his pocket, pulled his shoes on, and asked the secretary where to find the nearest bookshop.

When he got there, Paul made it about three steps through the door before he was accosted.

“Hey there,” the middle-aged woman said, scraping her eyes over him in a way that was about the direct opposite of subtle. “We’re doing fifty percent off used classics today, and if you’ve got a coupon, we can apply that to anything that’s not used classics. What can I help you with?”

Her name tag read _Brenda,_ she had an American accent and was standing entirely too close to him. Paul crossed his arms over his chest. “Just browsing,” he said and stepped around her.

She didn’t quite seem to get the hint, and instead trailed him as he wandered throughout the bookstore, chattering about her recommendations and the coupons and what she thought about C.S. Lewis’s _Chronicles of Narnia._

“Actually, Narnia sounds great,” Paul told her. “Where can I find your books about Narnia? Geography section?”

Brenda giggled as though she was uncertain whether Paul was joking or not. “Oh, well, C.S. Lewis is with the children’s fantasy.” Rather than lead him to the section, she pointed it out and trailed after him as he walked over.

Paul valiantly pretended not to notice the way she was staring at his arse.

Glancing over the selection of books --a mish-mash of paperbacks and hardbacks, different cover art and some printed in “large font,” which Paul thought might benefit John with that myopia of his-- Paul wondered which was the first. Since he didn’t want to ask the shop employee for help (she was standing attentively at his side, seemingly oblivious to his disinterest and discomfort), Paul picked a paperback at random. _The Magician’s Nephew._ It had an interesting enough title; hopefully, John could figure out what was going on. He was great at that sort of thing, piecing stories together.

_Should probably get more than one book, right? He reads like George eats._

Trying to conjure up another idea, he remembered that John had liked _The Great Gatsby._ Well, at least Paul remembered it to be _The Great Gatsby._ He didn’t care much for ‘classics.’ If it was the one with the rich guy and his equally rich girlfriend, then it was the right one.

John had gushed about it for weeks afterward, saying that it was a great big statement on the abundance and excess that wealthy people often surrounded themselves with, and how the whole character of Gatsby was a metaphor for capitalism or whatever.

Paul hoped he would get to hear it again, even if he was sure to mentally check out the second John started on the double standards of infidelity.

_Jesus, did she unbutton the top two buttons of her blouse?_

“D’you know where I can find _The Great Gatsby?_ ” Paul asked Brenda, more than a little reluctant to solicit any attention from her.

The woman beamed at him as if he had just turned water into wine. Paul wondered if this was what birds looked like when he was flirting with them. He also wondered whether John might look like that if he flirted with him, and then whether John had completely ruined birds for him. Bastard.

“There are a couple copies in the ‘used classics’ section,” she said cheerfully. “On sale, remember? Up at the front.”

Paul forced a smile and headed back to the front. Looking through the paperbacks stacked on the table, he selected the least battered copy of _Gatsby_ and paused.

It had to be this book. Paul couldn’t think of any other book it might’ve been. Maybe _Les Miserables_ or something. He couldn’t use his words so he would have to use books and if the book was wrong, then that defeated the purpose of the apology, didn’t it?

Accidentally dropping the book, Paul bent over to pick it up and sighed.

“God _damn_ ,” said the woman, who had taken her thin, fractured filter and snapped it in half.

“Excuse me?” Paul asked incredulously.

The woman’s eyes went wide. “Oh, I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just that--”

“I am _seventeen years old,_ ” Paul emphasized, widening his eyes and putting a hand on his hip. “Are you looking at the arse of somebody who’s barely graduated secondary school?”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry--”

He almost cracked up and ruined the entire thing, but luckily managed to compose himself long enough to grab his books and storm his way up to the counter. He made sure to hurry along the process of checking out by throwing pointed glares at the shop employee and responding to questions with single words. John would have been proud.

Paul gave Brenda one more glare as he left, even shaking his head like he was disappointed in her. He felt a bit too much like his da for comfort. Well, if his da had ever had a woman twice his age mutter to her fellow employee about how “the view is even better when he’s leaving” after he bought a couple of books.

Perhaps Brenda was right. Perhaps not an appropriate thing to ask somebody’s opinion on during a sincere apology.

\------

He was waiting in the armchair when John returned, looking exhausted. Nonetheless, Paul nearly leaped out of the chair in his excitement, shoving the paper-wrapped parcels into John’s arms. John almost dropped them.

“What’s this, then?” John asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Prezzies,” Paul said. “Since I can’t seem to apologize to you with words.”

“‘I’m sorry’ might be a good start,” John suggested, slumping onto the bed.

Paul opened his mouth to say something, and once again froze up, watching John’s face contort into a bemused expression. He looked down at his trousers and picked at a spare thread on the hem of his jeans in an attempt to avoid John’s eyes. “Okay, here goes,” he said steadily.

“Waitin’ in anticipation.”

“That’s not helpin’!” Paul protested. “I want to apologize to you, and you’re makin’ it harder than it bloody has to be.”

John cracked a smile, and relief flowed through Paul’s body like water through a broken dam. “Okay, okay, go on.”

Paul took a deep breath and began. “Okay. John, I’m sorry about everythin’ that I said, especially the part about your da, an’, y’know, that last bit…”

“The last bit,” John repeated.

“Yes,” Paul said. “The last bit. About, y’know, the _wanting_ an’ all that.”

“The wanting,” he confirmed.

A pause.

“We don’t have to talk about that bit if you don’t want,” John said, surprisingly soft.

_Isn’t_ want _the whole issue here?_ “Thanks,” Paul choked out, his throat feeling tight. He may have hated it, but he knew they needed to talk about it. Needed to get it out in the open. There couldn’t be any more lies between them; even if it seemed to be the one thing Paul could do right in whatever this was.

John tore the paper off the packages.

At the sight of the book covers, he started grinning and Paul wondered if he himself had looked like that after the Sosmix incident. Probably had, soft lad that he was becoming.

Upon the realization that Paul was looking at him, John quickly subdued his grin into a close-lipped smile that resembled the waistband of a too-tight pair of jeans. “Thanks, Macca,” John said. “I suppose I’ll forgive you.”

Paul sighed in deep relief. “Thank God. I was gettin’ tired of the silence.”

John made a face at him and turned back to the books. “Don’t you get too comfortable. This is only ‘cause you brought me _Gatsby._ ”

“It’s the one you liked, then? All I could remember was the rich people, and the metaphor--”

“Gatsby representing all of capitalism,” John confirmed. “Can’t believe you remember talkin’ about that. I reckoned you were just about dead, your eyes were all glazed over.”

Paul feigned offense. “I’m an excellent listener, I’ll have you know.”

“Yeah, if the lecturer is a Playboy bunny or Bono,” John scoffed.

“Oi!” Paul exclaimed. He almost reached out to swat John and then thought better of it, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees instead.

“Hey, this is the sixth book in a seven-book series,” John said, skimming over the back cover of _The Magician’s Nephew._ “Outdid yourself on this one.”

“You’ll figure it out. Smarter than you look.”

“Arsehole,” John said, but it was without malice and Paul’s heart overflowed.

\------

Stratford was filled with people who looked down their noses at John and Paul like the pair were dog shit who had just introduced themselves to their shoes. It would have been offensive had Paul not been busy mooning over John.

One had to wonder if he had always smiled so much at Paul, and also whether Paul was capable of handling that. It had been much easier when he was oblivious and not scrutinizing John’s every move for signs of affection, love, or (and this was the most important bit right then) anything that suggested he wasn’t secretly still angry.

As John led the way out of the pub, storming more than walking, Paul wasn’t sure whether it was too much of a secret.

“We’re never gonna fuckin’ find him,” John growled. “This is all such bullshit! Southerners would slit their own throats before helping us.”

“Hey, take it easy,” Paul warned him. He automatically reached out and settled his hand on John’s forearm.

John didn’t pull away; he didn’t even flinch. But the unexpected touch seemed to surprise both of them, and Paul quickly took his hand back, shoving it into the pocket of his sweatshirt. Nonetheless, it seemed to have been effective, because John was quiet and still and looking at Paul with that tiny smile that he so adored.

“It’s alright,” John said. “I don’t mind.”

Paul bit the inside of his cheek and nodded, but he didn’t return his hand to John’s forearm. But he walked a bit closer than normal as they went to their next destination, letting their shoulders brush through their clothes and shivering each time they touched.

\------

The phone rang only twice before it picked up, and then it was him, heavy Scouse accent hardly decipherable over the phone: “‘Ello, this is George.”

“George!” Paul cheered. “It’s Paul! Have you got a mo’?”

There was then a record scratch (George never did take his records off the player properly) and the familiar clunking sound of an electric guitar being sat down against the wall. “Not at all,” George said. “Not since my best mate went runnin’ off, leavin’ me all alone with Pete.”

Paul laughed. It felt _excellent,_ like a cold shower after a hot day. “Pete’s not all bad. I’m sure you’ve had plenty to do. Still workin’ at the McDonald’s?”

“Haven’t got anywhere else to work, have I?” George asked sourly.

“You could always ask about my old job at the hardware store,” Paul suggested.

“To be honest, I would rather pry off my toenails for a livin’.”

They both laughed and Paul leaned his head against the wall of the telephone booth, unable to stop grinning. “I miss you,” he said, surprised by his honesty. “You’re the only one who keeps my head on straight.”

“Somebody’s got to do it. It’s a thankless job.”

“Unlike the McDonald’s?”

“Piss off,” George said, snickering close to the phone. “I get paid for my noble duties there.”

Paul said, “What, like wiping out the playplace at the end of the day?”

George said, “They don’t wipe it out.”

Paul made a disgusted noise and George laughed. It was a comforting noise. Familiar, just like home, in the same way that Jim’s tea and Mike’s Saturday cartoons and the smell of John’s cigarettes were all home. All he needed now was the familiar hum of one of George’s Led Zeppelin records; the gentle pressure of his acoustic in his hands as he strummed vague chord patterns and George complained _I’m trying to learn it by ear, Paul, cut it out…_

“I’ll pay you for your noble duties in keepin’ my head on straight,” Paul offered. “I’ll buy you curry from that place by the art school when I get home.”

He could hear George’s grin. “You better. Speakin’ of the art school, how’s John? Raisin’ Cain in the south? Stealin’ kids’ lunch money and terrorizing little old ladies?”

Paul snorted. “Close enough,” he said. “He’s terrorizing _me._ ”

“No more than usual, I hope.”

_You have no idea._ “Oh, a bit more,” Paul said, in a statement that might have taken the award for Biggest Understatement Of The Year. “He’s been, uh, openin’ up a bit. About why he wanted to go see his da an’ all that.”

George hummed, sounding intrigued. “So why’s that?”

_Would John be angry with me if I told George?_ He didn’t think that John would be mad, but then again, he hardly knew if John even remembered those conversations. They had both been very drunk. It was a miracle that Paul still remembered. “You promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“When have I ever told anybody your business? Also, who would I tell?” George pointed out.

“Yeah, yeah,” Paul muttered. “Alright then. He told me about how he’s goin’ on the trip ‘cause he thinks that his da will have answers about Julia, right? Like, more insight into who she was as a person and whether she truly cared about him or anythin’.”

“He’s going to hurt himself,” George said with a sigh.

“What?”

“He’s going to hurt himself,” George repeated, “‘cause he won’t know what to do if he doesn’t get the answers he wants. You know how our John is.”

Paul bit his lip. He hadn’t thought of that before. This didn’t _seem_ like one of those John-missions where he did something just to cause himself emotional damage (and there had been a notable few), but Paul had been sidetracked by… well, his crush on John. He had neglected John because of John.

He focused entirely on himself and his thoughts and feelings instead of what was going on with John. He felt even more ashamed of what he had said in Swindon now that he considered that his best mate was dealing with far more than he was. Was always dealing with more.

“‘Ello? Paul?” George was saying into the phone.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m here,” Paul responded. “Jus’ thinkin’.”

“First time for everythin’,” said George.

“I would hit you for that if I could.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’re too soft.”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Paul smiled to himself.

“But as I was sayin’,” George continued, “I reckon that’s why he brought you along instead of me or Pete or Stu. You’ll know the proper thing to say when he doesn’t get the right answers.”

Paul’s eyebrows crept together and the smile abruptly left his face. “That’s a lot of pressure, y’know,” he said. “I never know the proper thing to say. Always fuck it up.”

George made a noise that could have been indifference but could also have been an agreement, and Paul couldn’t decide which of the two options was worse. “You’re better at this than you think you are.”

Paul sighed into the phone and leaned harder against the wall, pressing his shoulder into the glass until it hurt. “I think you’re daft.”

George made the noise again.

For a moment, Paul considered telling him everything. All about his sudden feelings for John, and the fact that John harbored a similar feeling if the Stoke-on-Trent comment was anything to go on. Paul didn’t think George would ever say anything against him; he was better than Paul and John and pretty much everyone. He was more emotionally intelligent than the pair of them combined. He was _trustworthy._

“There’s somethin’ else,” Paul said.

“Yeah?” George asked, and Paul could hear the faint strum of his guitar in the background. He wished he was there, to sit with George and play his guitar and have a laugh, not wallowing in his self-pity over his sort-of relationship.

He hesitated, and standing in the telephone booth with a dinky plastic phone to his ear, staring at a misshapen fingerprint on the glass that separated him from the rest of London, Paul changed his mind again. He was not home and all he could do was wallow.

“Oh, never mind,” Paul said, forcing a chuckle. “Can’t remember now.”

“Mmm,” said George. He did not sound convinced.

A long pause followed. Paul stood there staring blankly at the glass, biting at his thumbnail. He hoped George wouldn’t push the issue. _Stupid perceptive bastard._

“D’you really think I’ll be able to help him?” Paul asked in a small voice. “If he still doesn’t find what he’s lookin’ for?”

That smile was audible again. “I reckon you’re the only one who can.”

\------

“Oh yeah,” said the bulky man, a broad smirk on his face. “Seen him there only a week ago. He’s definitely in Felixstowe. Staying put.”

John’s face was as bright as the sun. Paul imagined it hurt his eyes to look straight at him, and he looked down at the cuffs of his trousers instead.

“Are you sure?” asked John, the nonchalance in his voice undeniably fake. His face was too shiny and eager to be nonchalant, bright as the sun and possibly even brighter, so _excited._ Paul longed to reach out to him, but he shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers instead and kept his eyes on the floor.

“Oh yeah,” repeated the man, and his smile widened even more. He looked like a shark, with far too many teeth and an expression that suggested he would not hesitate to eat either of them. Paul’s stomach gurgled with apprehension as he looked up at the man through his eyelashes.

“Thank you,” Paul said abruptly and lifted his head, held the man’s gaze even though it made him feel odd and afraid. Threatened, almost. Like he was holding something above their heads.

“No problem, lads.” It sounded and felt like a taunt. The hair on the back of Paul’s neck stood up as if he had been electrocuted.

Paul grabbed hold of John’s elbow and steered him away from the cluster of workmen, toward the other end of the bar. When they were out of earshot, he let go, whirling on John within a second.

“I didn’t like him,” Paul said, crossing his arms over his chest.

John still had an expression on his face like a schoolboy who had just been kissed for the first time. “Oh, come on, Macca. He knows where my da is. We have a bloody _address!_ ”

“I have a bad feelin’ about him,” Paul insisted, rubbing his arms with his palms. “Did you see the way he was lookin’ at you?”

“Yeah, like fresh meat,” John confirmed. “Don’t get too jealous on us now.”

It would have been more of a laugh had there not been some truth to it; some sort of tension that hung in the air between them after John’s comment. Paul merely frowned and looked away, accepting the beer offered to him by the bartender.

He drank in silence and let himself brew, listening half-heartedly to John’s pleasant chatter. Paul didn’t think that he could just _go along with it…_ he had a gut feeling and was suddenly quite sure he would rather jog back to Liverpool than go to Felixstowe. But, on the other hand, John was so happy. Paul couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his mate beam like that.

He would just have to live with it. He lived with a lot of things for John’s sake.

So he nodded happily and made affirming noises at the correct intervals and agreed that they should probably head out early the following morning. Something at the back of his mind prickled with discomfort.

\------

Paul was awakened by a damp John shoving a paper take-out box into his arms.

“Whassat?” Paul asked groggily, sitting up on his elbows and shivering as the cool air settled onto his arms. He stifled a yawn.

His friend’s grin softened around the edges, just as lovely. And it was directed at Paul. Christ, what a thing to wake up to. “It’s french-fried bread. Y’know, that soggy toast?” He placed the box on Paul’s lap and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Soggy toast,” Paul said stupidly. He opened the box and hummed in approval.

“Good?” John asked. Paul looked up at him and thought he might die then and there. God, John was so pretty it hurt. Paul wanted to reach out and card his hands through his hair, maybe take off his glasses and kiss him… oh God, kissing John.

_Maybe this is not something we should be thinking about right now._ Paul nodded, abruptly looking down at the toast and shoving an overlarge bite into his mouth to avoid elaboration.

John smiled fondly and stood up to go mess about in the bathroom. Soon enough, they were standing on the pavement, ready to go to Felixstowe.

It was just after nine in the morning when they started the drive. Paul settled comfortably on the back of the motorbike, wrapping his arms around John’s waist as usual and sitting a little closer than is strictly necessary. He’s only human.

\------

“What if he doesn’t even want to see me,” John said, shaking his hands out as he paced the motel room floor. Paul wouldn’t have been surprised to see dents where he had been walking.

“He’ll want to see you,” Paul said. “You’re his only son.”

“But what if I’m not?” John’s eyes suddenly went wide, like this was a possibility he had not yet considered. “What if he’s got a family or somethin’?”

“I’m sure that won’t stop him from wanting to see you,” Paul soothed.

“What if he’s got, like, a whole new life? With a whole bunch more mini-Alfs runnin’ around?”

“Come on, John, it’ll be jus’ fine.”

“Oh my God, what if he has a new _wife?_ ”

“That generally comes with the territory of kids,” Paul said. “Listen, John, I’m gonna need you to take a few deep breaths.”

John did. His pacing didn’t stop. “What am I goin’ to say to him? ‘Hullo, Da, I’m your long-estranged son from Liddypool. Remember, the one you abandoned?’”

Paul said, “That might be a little too confrontational.”

John sighed and finally stopped moving, wringing his wrists and looking incredibly nervous. “What _should_ I say then?”

Reaching out, Paul stood up and gently pushed John’s fringe out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ears to the best of his ability. Self-indulgently, he let his fingers linger near John’s cheekbone. “You tell him, ‘Hullo, I’m John, and I’m your son,’” Paul said, “and then you accept his invitation for dinner and a good old-fashioned game of catch.”

His friend scoffed, but the pink tinge to John’s face didn’t escape Paul’s notice. “Fat lot of good that does me.”

“Just be yourself,” Paul added. “Give him ten fun facts about yourself and an adjective starting with _J_ that describes you.”

John laughed, his cheek brushing Paul’s fingertips and sending sparks up. “It’s not fuckin’ primary school.”

“Give him an apple for his troubles.”

“I’m gonna leave you here if you’re not careful,” John said, turning to get his shoes. It was an empty threat and they both knew it.

Walking down the street, Paul squinted at the scribbled address and street signs, trying to determine how they might arrive at their destination. The man in the pub must have been pissed; either that or he only knew how to write in hieroglyphics. Nonetheless, they managed to wander their way onto Mill Lane, and then it was just a matter of getting to 41 Langley Road… at least, that was what he _thought_ it said.

“What do you think he’s gonna say to me?” John asked as they walked. He was still wringing his wrists. Paul thought about taking his hands and then thought better of it.

“I dunno,” Paul said, glancing at a house number as they passed. “‘Wow, John, I’m right pleased with how you’ve turned out. Who’s your mysterious, intriguing friend?’”

John snorted and bumped his shoulder into Paul’s. “He won’t say that.”

Paul shrugged and smiled. “Hey, you asked what I think he’s gonna say.”

“You’re right delusional, then,” said John.

“Yeah.” Paul checked the number of the next house they passed. They were getting close to the end of the street, and he still didn’t see 47, although there was no way they could have passed it. Paul frowned and paused, looking down at the scrap of paper again.

“Paul?” John asked.

“Johnny?”

John was staring at him with an eagerness that he usually reserved for MTV music videos and fish and chips. There was something vulnerable in his gaze, more vulnerable than Paul would have thought possible in the light of day. “Do you think he’ll even want to talk to me?” John asked, almost whispering, although nobody else was around.

“Of course,” Paul answered immediately. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“I dunno,” John said, breaking eye contact to look down at his feet. “Maybe he’ll be disappointed or something. I dunno.”

Paul reached out and took hold of John’s shoulders, staring him straight in the eye. George’s words rung through his head once again: _you’ll know the proper thing to say when he doesn’t get the right answers._ “He won’t be disappointed. I promise you he won’t. Nobody could ever be disappointed to have you as a son.”

His eyes were wide, but he leaned closer, trying to climb into Paul’s words. “You think so?”

“Yeah, of _course,_ ” Paul said firmly. “And if he’s disappointed, he’s not worth a minute of your time anyway.”

The corner of John’s mouth quirked up and he curled his hands around Paul’s elbows. Paul couldn’t help but smile back, and they stood like that for a moment, two daft lads on a street corner; one pretending he wasn’t in love and the other pretending he wasn’t afraid, both trying not to pretend anymore.

“Alright, you sod,” Paul said. “Let’s go meet him.”

John took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment before he let go of Paul’s elbows and turned away. It took most of Paul’s self-restraint to keep from reaching back out.

He led John down the pavement, eyes scanning the house numbers desperately. They were getting closer and closer… 41, 43, 45…

There was a long stretch of empty field between houses 45 and 47. John, standing close to his right side, froze.

Behind the black iron gate at 47, the grass was greener than it had been at any of the other houses, but it was marred by the big, smooth stones, planted in rows like tulips. Color sprouted everywhere; small red-and-yellow bouquets in glass, little corduroy teddy bears, even boxes of chocolate. Trees were interspersed between the stones, casting strange and misshapen shadows on the otherwise peaceful scenery. Despite the breeze, the air felt still and cool. Paul’s mouth hung open in shock. He dreaded looking at John.

The silence of the graveyard was broken by John’s hysterical laughter.


	8. Felixstowe, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five days and nothing has changed.

The clock taunted him from its place on the bedside table, blinking steadily as the minutes passed. Paul sat on the edge of the bed and watched it. The digital clock was the safest place to look, and even though his eyes felt dry and sore when he blinked, it was also better than trying to sleep.

He had tried already. No matter how long he lay down between the sheets, John warm and fast asleep at his side and pale moonlight streaming in between the cheap blinds, Paul could not drift off. He couldn’t pinpoint the problem, so he had decided to get up and get dressed.

That had been three hours ago.

Paul scrubbed the heels of his palms over his eyes miserably and sat up straighter, his back throbbing in complaint. John didn’t stir. The blanket was pulled up to his nose. It would have stirred some fondness in Paul if he wasn’t so damn stressed. He looked back over at the clock. It was almost four.

He was a night nurse, working the graveyard shift. He would be ready when he was needed. 

_It was something about the look on his face,_ he decided, eyes still trained on the clock as though he was expecting it to sprout a fist and clock him itself. When they were in the graveyard still. The real graveyard. That was what had prevented him from falling asleep.

Paul had thought he had been the one to die. There was no way something on Earth could be that hellish.

\-------

_The 23rd of July, 1991 - three hundred sixty days prior_

There was an unstoppable force pulling him toward the front of the church hall, but Paul was an immovable object and he had not paid enough attention in science to figure out what the outcome of this was going to be.

John’s frizzy head landed in Mimi’s lap and he was out of view, and only then could Paul breathe, although he knew that it would not last long. He was being drawn toward the front of the room, and all he wanted was to _get to John;_ he also knew that his condolences would only be taken as pity and it would spark a fight, to be fought over ciggies in the church parking lot later. Or, worse (if that was even possible), he would be completely brushed aside.

He ached for John.

Stupid lad, stone-cold and flat and unyielding, refusing to show any sort of emotion. Mimi stood up to do the eulogy and John sat there alone, still as a statue.

“My sister Julia was a remarkable woman in every way,” Mimi began.

Paul wanted to reach out to him. _I know how you feel, I know exactly what it’s like, it won’t hurt so badly after a while and you won’t ever forget her but you’ll be able to move on and…_

But John refused to catch his eye. Of course, Paul was seated ten rows behind him and all he could see was the back of John’s head, but he had been hopeful. He had wanted to comfort his friend because this was all wrong.

Paul _knew_ Julia. She had taught John to play the guitar, more or less, and she had fostered his love for rock music. John had brought Paul to his mum’s house as soon as possible, and he still could recall the exact conversation they’d had, sitting on lawn chairs out in the yard with their guitars.

_“So Paul, what do you do for fun?”_

_“Oh, mostly music,”_ he had responded. _“This is pretty much it.”_

 _“Well, if you think I’m fun, you’re welcome whenever, love.”_ She had winked, and John had groaned.

_“God, Mum, can you not flirt with this one?”_

They had all laughed, and Paul had been a bit embarrassed, but the thought of John liking his company was lovely and he savored the moment. He savored the moment for a year, and now they were sitting in the middle of a funeral service for the woman who let them blast Black Sabbath in her house and had boldly flirted with her teenage son’s mate.

She was so _alive._ Such a spirited woman; always moving and singing and laughing. There was no way she could be contained, not even in a coffin.

“It is impossible to sum Julia up in a few sentences,” Mimi was saying, her hands gripping each other like vices. “She was incredible. Even when we were fighting, she had this way of making me see her side, and she could always make me laugh. She had a natural talent for music.” Her eyes were on John. Paul sat forward in his seat and wished he could see John’s face.

Mimi continued, “I see her in you, John.” She paused and watched her nephew. “I do not think for a second that she’s gone. Although she’s no longer with us… she is still with us. She lives on in you, and everyone else who had the fortune to know her.”

Another pause. Each one felt like a gasp when sobbing, just long enough to get a proper breath in. The air felt dense and humid. Paul had to squeeze his eyes shut against the church hall and take a deep breath before he could open them again, fending off tears that threatened to spill over like a glass of orange juice when one is trying to get the juice container out of the icebox.

It was just wrong. She would have laughed at the drama of the speech, and teased Mimi about her frumpy dress. Julia would have had a million things to say about the church.

John’s aunt looked close to tears as she pressed her bony knuckles tighter together.

“Julia, if you’re listening,” Mimi said hoarsely, “We love you. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you more often when I had the chance.”

Paul had never seen this side of Mimi before, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to again if she could make him weep like a baby.

He was not the only one. In the sparsely populated pews, there were plenty of women and children crying, and the occasional man hiding his wet eyelashes. Paul wished he had not come alone; seeing Julia’s friends blowing their noses and clutching their husbands’ sleeves…

Respectful silence as Mimi sat down. John’s head was drawn to her shoulder like a magnet. They sat that way for the rest of the service, completely silent, Mimi’s hands clutched tightly around her handbag. A priest and Julia’s husband and some woman she worked with came up to say a few words, and Paul barely listened, eyes narrowed in on John.

But after the service, John got up to leave and turned in Paul’s direction. Paul stood up to go meet him; John shuffled up the aisle alongside Mimi and Paul froze, a deer in the headlights.

John’s eyes were rimmed in bright red, puffy and bloodshot with bags underneath them, such a dark grey they were almost purple. He probably hadn’t slept in days. Even though he wore his glasses, he looked sightless, blind. Blank. 

As he lurched up the aisle, almost limping, he was a stray dog; going off to lick his wounds. Or possibly a skeleton, with the way that the suit hung off his frame. He incited sympathy and fear and dread all at the same time.

And yet he was not crying. His eyes were dry as he led his aunt out the door. He did not seem to see Paul standing in the tenth row.

Paul did not feel as though he was standing in the tenth row. He was floating above the polished wood floor as he left the building, and his feet did not touch the pedals as he biked home. But he hadn’t gone home at all; he had gone to George’s house and sobbed into his friend’s scrawny shoulder and tried not to think about the mirror image he had seen at the funeral.

\------

Speaking of George, he was wrong.

Paul did not know what to say. Every time John showed signs of stirring, a sigh, or a snuffle or shifting around the mattress, the words stuck in Paul’s throat like peanut butter in a dog’s mouth. He sat and watched and waited as John slept and clasped his shaking hands together like he had seen Mimi do… only a year ago. God.

John should have taken someone else. Somebody sensitive, like Stu, or somebody like Pete Shotton, who could cheer anybody up, or George himself, who was both. Paul was none of these things; he was the lad who had said ‘uhm’ in response to John’s offer of a road trip and who thought only of himself.

He took a deep breath, desperate for air, which was hot and thick and dusty around him. It wasn’t proper air. Nothing that could rejuvenate him; nothing that could shake the weight in his lungs that threatened to tear through the bottom and pop them. Paul’s hands clutched at the arms of his chair and he dug his blood-caked fingernails into the fabric.

John was faced away from Paul now, the only visible part of him his limp hair. He took comfort in staring at John’s hair as he kneaded the armchair like a cat, eyes burning and lungs heavy and heart beating a lot faster than it really ought to.

Paul did not know what to say, and George was wrong. George was _never_ wrong, and now; the one time that it mattered, George had made a mistake. He had given false confidence to Paul and Paul had taken it and run, not thinking of what the consequences might be if he was wrong. 

Because now he was sitting there in a motel room, his best mate having been asleep for nearly twelve hours, and his fingernails chewed nearly halfway down; and all he wanted was to get some bloody sleep but he couldn’t because he needed to be there if John needed him.

And he couldn’t even blame George for it. Or John, or himself. All he could do was wonder what had happened to Alfred Lennon.

What happened to Alf that he had died so suddenly, within the past decade? Did Mimi know? Did Julia? Had John known that there was the possibility that both of his parents were gone, or was he walking into this blindly, like a lamb to the slaughter?

Why hadn’t Paul protected him?

Paul pressed his knuckles into his eyes until it hurt, and then pressed a little harder. He should’ve stopped John from going to Felixstowe when he had the chance. When that man gave him that terrible feeling in the pub. He should’ve turned around and marched them back home after the Stoke-on-Trent incident, or maybe stalled John there a bit longer.

He should’ve said no to going in the first place.

Of course, John would never have gone without a companion. And he had asked Paul, so he probably wouldn’t have asked anybody else. He wouldn’t have gone on this blasted trip at all.

_Why didn’t I protect him?_

Paul slammed his hands back down onto the armchair and stared at a point on the wall, stomach churning dangerously. He couldn’t have known, any more than John had known. There was no way Paul could have kept him from going after his father. And there was no way he would’ve said no to John. He _never_ said no to John.

The clock read 2:19 and it mocked him, laughing in his face like some pathetic electronic school bully. The red letters stood out boldly against the black. _Trying to show off, probably,_ Paul thought, and sneered. Daring him to say something, the light behind the clock face flickered.

He _couldn’t_ have protected John, even if he wanted to. That was the thing. Paul had no way of knowing any of this was going to happen, and if he had known, maybe he would have done things differently.

Yet pictures of headstones and iron gates and John’s shaking hands lingered at the back of his mind, threatening to push their way into view.

Paul’s stomach roared and he stood up quickly, hurrying on unsteady legs toward the bathroom. He managed to grab hold of the clock cord on the way over. He pulled it hard from the wall and hissed “ _bitch_ ” at its blank face before he was forced to his knees in front of the toilet.

\------

It weighed on him like an elephant stepping on a man’s back, breaking it over and over in the lowest circle of hell; a locked memory that he couldn’t help but think about anyway. He had to pick at the scab.

Paul did not _want_ to think about the graveyard again, but his mind always wandered back to it. He could not imagine a world in which one of his friends was dead.

He could only imagine the pain of it being his father. Even if John had not known him, they had come tantalizingly close. Within reach. He wondered if things might have been different had they come the summer of Julia’s death, or the summer before that.

It all came back to whether he could’ve changed the outcome of this trip. Paul knew there was no way, and yet he longed for a chance to go back; to change some little event and prevent Alf from ever dying, to make sure John got to see his father at least once more.

But this wasn’t _Back To The Future,_ and Paul wasn’t George McFly. John _certainly_ wasn’t Lorraine.

Cor, he needed to get some sleep.

\------

The clock read four once again, but Paul was not there to see it. He stood in the queue at a Tesco, holding a battered and bruised bouquet of dyed-pink carnations, staring at the cracked white linoleum as though it held the answers to his problems.

Of course, sleep would probably have helped him with some of them. Like why there were colorful spots at the edge of his vision, or why he was convinced he could hear _Raspberry Beret_ somewhere in his right ear, at all hours of the night and day. Paul was sure.

It wouldn’t have helped with others, though. Like why John refused to eat or even sit up in bed. LIke why he wouldn’t even look at Paul, and why he flinched away when Paul tried to climb into bed to top-and-tail with him. Like why he didn’t even hum along when Paul put on _How Soon Is Now?_ even though Paul knew for a fact John had memorized all the lyrics.

Paul stared at the cracked tile flooring of the Tesco and imagined that he was that linoleum: fractured, and worn-out. He held the flowers up and compared the deep pink to the white, which wasn’t so much white as it was a faded gray from all the dirt. It looked fine with gray.

He hurried through the queue when it was his turn, refusing a bag and tossing a couple of pounds at the cashier before he rushed out. Paul wanted to get back to John as soon as possible, even though he felt like he had to do this; there was some thought deep at the back of his mind that said _John would do this for your da, no matter how much they hate each other,_ and Paul knew that he had to do _something._

The headstones all looked the same, but it took Paul only a few moments to find Alf’s grave. It was one of the newer ones, sitting at the front of the third row on the left, nothing adorning the stone. Not a single petal or candy. No other Lennons surrounded him; Alf was buried alone.

It had been smart of him to compare the flowers to the floor before he bought them. The shade of gray that covered the tile was almost the same as that of Alf’s headstone.

Paul laid the bouquet against the side of the stone and stared blankly at the grave, unsure what he was supposed to say. He hadn’t been to church since he was seven. Did you even say something when you had never known them, not even through photographs? Did you say something when your only connection was your mutual, albeit different, love for the same lad?

After a moment, Paul croaked out: “Thank you, Mr. Lennon.”

He didn’t know what he had been expecting to happen, but nothing did. There was no picking-up of the wind, no microscopic whisper in his ear, no warm feeling in his chest. All Paul felt was sadness, for John, for him, for Alf.

Paul came back to the motel with the makeshift words still on his lips, feeling as noticeable as scars, and he was surprised to see that John was awake, sitting up in bed and staring at the television. He tried to come in as quietly as possible, but it was too late.

John looked at Paul with tired, tired eyes. All the emotion had dried from them, even the sadness, leaving an exhaustion behind that weighed on Paul’s soul like it was his own.

Paul held his gaze anyway and sat down in the chair again. He watched John blink slowly, once, twice… and then John rolled over, and Paul was faced with a wall of blankets once again. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out with a steadiness that he wanted to provide his best mate with.

\------

_The 15th of July, 1992 - three days prior_

The silence of the graveyard was broken by John’s hysterical laughter, and immediately, Paul was trying to justify what had happened.

“Maybe they tore down his house to build it,” Paul said. “Maybe he’s the groundskeeper or somethin’, and he lives on the property.”

John bent over and held his stomach like it was the funniest thing in the entire goddamn world. Paul thought he might be sick. Or maybe John would make himself sick, laughing like that. He grabbed hold of John’s arm and pulled.

“I’m serious,” Paul said. “I’m sure he’s fine. Probably jus’ had to move. Another dead end, right?” He winced at his poor word choice, but John didn’t seem to notice, having moved on to settling his palms on his knees while he cackled.

“‘M sure it’s just a misunderstandin’.” He grabbed at John’s arm as though it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. “Right? Jus’ a misunderstandin’. We’ll find him.”

His friend finally straightened up, face flushed and blotchy from laughter. “Yeah, we’ll find him in the fuckin’ ground. He’s dead, Paul.”

The words burned Paul like hot matches and he withdrew from John, grasping hopelessly at straws. “We don’t know that! He could be fine, walkin’ around out in Felixstowe right now! I bet he’s jus’ the caretaker or somethin’...”

“Would you cut it out?” John snapped suddenly. “He’s _fuckin’ dead,_ Paul. Didn’t you hear the nice lad at the bar?” A cynical smile tugged at John’s lips. “Stayin’ put. For good.”

_Seen him there only a week ago… definitely in Felixstowe. Stayin’ put._

Paul gaped helplessly at John and his friend sighed, collapsing on the ground with his back against the gate of the graveyard fence.

This couldn’t be the end. This was not how their story was supposed to end. Their fabulous adventure. It was supposed to end with John finding his da and bonding with him, maybe even playing a bit of catch; then, if Paul was lucky, he would get to tell John about his feelings and there would be an explosive kiss and a fairy-tale ending. A Disney movie ending, where all the happy little animated characters with their pure dumb luck had everything work out for them.

John did not look like a Disney prince. He looked like he wanted a cigarette.

“Maybe this is the wrong address,” Paul said in a small voice. “He might live behind it.”

John just looked up at him, not even bothering to raise an eyebrow. The implication was there anyway. Paul stared in return and then lowered himself to the ground beside John, even though it hurt his back, and they sat and watched the empty street with their backs to the graves of Alf Lennon and so many others.

It was all too much. They had been searching for fifteen days, almost nonstop, more than two weeks of their lives. And even more than that because John had been searching for his father his entire life; since he was abandoned as a child and even more avidly since Julia’s death. Now there was another death in the family to deal with, and John hadn’t even known about the funeral. Paul hoped nobody else did. If Mimi had known and withheld the information, Paul might have had cause to off her.

The look on John’s face said it all. There was far too much color in his cheeks, and his eyes were trained on the house across the way as though that would hide the puffiness.

But he was not crying.

They stayed there for far too long, staring and thinking and trying to pretend that their mission hadn’t just been handed a live grenade until John stood up suddenly, just before sunset, and he led Paul back to the motel room.

John collapsed in bed without even taking his jeans off and Paul tried to sleep but he couldn’t, so he put on his clothes and sat on the edge of the bed and watched the teasing clock flash the numbers until it was nearly four the next morning and he had accepted that he was a graveyard nurse. Bandaging and disinfecting wounds, kissing bruises better, applying ointments, and giving medication where needed.

It was too bad that he was a completely uneducated nurse, who had no idea what kind of medication his patient needed.

\------

He set the paper bag down on John’s lap as soon as he got into the room. They made eye contact and Paul did his best not to flinch at the dazed, glazed expression on John’s face. The television blared a nature documentary; Paul did not believe for a second that John was watching it.

“It’s poppy seed,” Paul said, pointing at the bag. “Your favorite.”

John forced a smile and unwrapped the muffin.

Settling down on the bed beside John, he watched the nature documentary and learned far more about carrier pigeons than he ever really needed to. He pretended not to notice John half-heartedly picking at the top of the muffin. Paul collected up the crumbs and ate it when John slunk off to the bathroom an hour later.

\------

“Hey,” Paul said, “so it turns out John’s da is dead.”

There was an incredibly long moment of silence on the other line, and then the questions came explosively, one after the other, Jim the volcanic eruption: _how did you find out? What was John’s reaction? Are you coming home? Where are you now?_

Paul did his best to explain. “Bastard at a pub told us. John’s in… a bad mood. We’re in Felixstowe, I think we’ll be fine, but I don’t know if we’re coming home yet…”

Jim was first because he was the easiest; interested in details and mildly concerned but not brimming over with sympathy, content as long as he knew Paul was breathing air and walking around. The next two were to be much harder.

He rang George next.

“It’s Paul,” he said by way of greeting. “Listen, I’ve got a bloody ton to tell you, so could you just listen for a moment?”

“Okay,” said George immediately, ever understanding.

So he told George. He told him about the wild goose chase all over England, only to find that Alf Lennon was dead; he told him about everything from the man in Stoke to the Sosmix, and then he explained his dilemma: how to get John home.

“Well, I suppose I could drive over and pick the pair of you up,” George mused.

“You haven’t got a license,” pointed out Paul, “or a car.”

“It could be arranged,” said George with an air of mystery. “Y’know, if you need to come home that bad.”

Paul shook his head and then realized George could not see it. “It’s okay. I think we’re going to be fine here for a while longer. And we can always take the train.”

“My driving isn't _that_ bad,” George joked, but Paul could not bring himself to fake a laugh.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, and Paul began to think. He had left out one very important detail about what had happened: the feelings for John, and therefore, he had left out what made up about forty percent of his troubles. But he didn’t know what George would say, although he couldn’t imagine George would be angry…

“I think I love him,” Paul spat out before he could second-guess his decision.

George sighed. “Yes, of course. But what are you goin’ to do abou--”

“No,” said Paul. “I mean I _love him._ ”

There was a pause, but it was almost microscopic, and then George said: “Well, alright. Even more important to figure out how to help him then, yeah?”

 _What in the fuck._ “Are you not understandin’ what I’m sayin’ here?” Paul demanded, his heart doing its best to break the speed limit. “I am _in love with_ John. Romantically, an’ all that. Not like my brother or whatever.”

There was a longer pause this time. Paul gripped the phone as though he was wringing a chicken’s neck and waited. He had probably just fucked up his oldest friendship, and honestly, he thought it might have been better had George immediately snapped _leave me alone, fag_ instead of making him dwell on it.

“Okay,” said George. “Thank you for tellin’ me. Now, what are you going to do about getting home?”

 _What._ “You don’t hate me?”

“Uhm… of course not?”

“There’s no _of course not_ about that!” Paul shrieked. He was going to need to nick some of his da’s blood pressure medication after this trip. “I thought you were goin’ to call me a poof or stop bein’ my friend or somethin’!”

“Why would I do that?” George asked with genuine confusion.

Paul blinked a couple of times, his mouth hanging open. “Because I’m a poof?”

George laughed and Paul couldn’t help but smile at the sound, despite the circumstances. “Well, ‘s not somethin’ I would stop bein’ your friend over. Also, I don’t give a rat’s arse.”

The happiness that flooded Paul’s chest was overwhelming. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.” He scrubbed a hand over his tired eyes.

“Well, it was a given,” said George, and Paul felt like he was going to cry. “I’m always goin’ to support you. Even if you want to have John’s babies or whatever.”

Paul made a face. “Not physically possible, but thanks.”

George said, “I want to be the godfather of the future babies.”

“You’re not even religious.”

“A-ha! So you do want his children.”

“Piss off,” Paul chuckled and it made him feel a little lighter than before. However, George didn’t respond, and the weight on his heart and his shoulders came back as soon as the moment had gone.

Now for the problem at hand.

Paul sighed. “I don’t know what to do, y’know? With John. He won’t eat. He hardly gets out of bed, and he won’t even _think_ about seeing his da’s grave.”

“Jus’ support him as best you can. Book train tickets back home.”

“But the motorbike,” Paul pointed out. If only John had picked an automotive that fit in a train station, like one of those Red Wagon wheelbarrows.

“Oh, right. Maybe don’t leave, then,” said George.

Paul sighed and put his face in his hands. Mixed messages, mixed results, mixed _everything._ Mixed-up world.

“Listen, jus’ let me know if you change your mind. If you need me to pick you up or send you money for tickets I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Haz. Really.”

“I’ve got to go to work, but call me back later, yeah?”

“Yeah. Bye,” said Paul, his throat burning. He didn’t want to hang up yet; he wanted an excuse to stay on the phone and ask George about his misadventures at McDonald’s and postpone the other call he had to make--

“Bye.”

The phone line clicked and Paul was left with dead ringing in his ear.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t call her about it, not when she might have known about Alf, not when she could have prevented this. She was just as responsible as him, wasn’t she? Keeping John out of travel and safe at home and all that. But she had let him go on this trip, just as Paul had, and they had _enabled_ this. So, with a sick satisfaction, Paul dialed the number.

She deserved to know what she and Paul had done. They had practically killed Alf themselves.

“You’ve reached the Smith residence. This is Mimi speaking.”

“Hello, Mimi, it’s Paul,” he said and waited.

A beat of silence followed and Paul wondered if he had made a mistake in calling. After all, Mimi didn’t like him much, no matter how she pretended to for John’s sake.

“What do you want, then?” she asked tersely, and then followed it up with the quite polite “what’s gone wrong?”

“He’s dead. Alf is dead. We found his grave in Felixstowe and John’s… He won’t eat anythin’, and he won’t hardly leave his bed, and I can’t get him to talk about it.” Paul blurted it out all in one breath, hoping to get it all out before Mimi made her demands.

Sure enough.

“Let me speak to him. Where is he?” Mimi said, the tone of her voice just as strangled as before, if not more so.

“Mimi, he’s…”

“Let me talk to John.”

“He’s in bed still! I told you, I can’t get him to leave,” Paul snapped, viciously chewing at the nail on his index finger. There wasn’t much left to chew.

Another beat.

“...this is not good,” said Mimi, winning the award for Understatement of the Year.

“No, it’s not.”

He could hear Mimi shuffling about in the background and wondered what she was busy with. Probably cleaning or something. “Where are the pair of you? I’m coming to pick you up, I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

There was suddenly complete certainty in Paul’s mind.

“No, Mimi, I… I think he needs to, y’know, make his peace before that. Go pay his respects and such… y’know.” Paul waved his hand in the air stupidly. “Plus there’s the motorbike and everythin’.”

“Paul, I mean this as politely as possible, but to _hell_ with the motorbike. He needs to come home.”

“I don’t think he’s ready to yet.” He clutched the phone closer to his ear and half-whispered, as though worried John would hear. “He hasn’t even gone to the grave.”

Mimi must have frozen because all Paul could hear was her breathing down the phone line. “...really?”

“Yeah,” said Paul, thinking _why would I lie about that?_ and _no, not really, I’m an arsehole_ and _please tell me what to do because I’m scared._

He was so scared. And that was probably why he couldn’t sleep; Paul stayed up through the nights worrying about John, watching his friend’s sleeping face where it laid near his feet, wondering whether he would eat something if offered and whether he would get out of bed to see his own dad’s grave.

And there was a little part of him, shameful and small and hidden, that was angry. That they had come all this way for a headstone that John wouldn’t even see.

Paul wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for three days straight, but he was fueling himself on stress and anger and John’s discarded poppy seed muffins; so he would stay up as long as necessary. He would stay up until they could go home.

“Okay,” said Mimi finally. Paul had forgotten they were on the phone, staring blankly at the glass wall as he dreamt of sleep. “I’ll trust you to take care of him, but if he’s not up and moving about in the next few days I’m coming to get you regardless. You keep me updated. Call me every day.”

“I’ll call you as much as I can. I don’t have a ton of coins left,” Paul said, something in the back of his brain dimly registering that they would be staying in Felixstowe. He should have been relieved.

“Call me every day. I’m serious about this,” Mimi insisted. “Use John’s money if you have to. I want to know what’s going on.”

“Alright, okay.”

“Thank you for letting me know what’s going on, Paul. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye, Mimi,” he said, and hung up before she did.

Paul wandered back in the direction of the motel in a daze, feeling top-heavy and yet cotton-light, emotionally drained yet less tired than he had in a while.

 _I told George,_ he informed himself, but his brain blurred around the edges and it didn’t seem as important as it might have a few days ago. Everything had been _John John John_ back then, and now it was _John John John_ but in a different way. A more _important_ way.

 _I told George I_ love _John,_ Paul thought and laughed out loud. It was not dissimilar to the manic laugh John had emitted standing at the gate of the graveyard, but when a passerby gave him a funny look, Paul did not even notice. _I_ love _John and I told somebody, and George told me it was okay, and I managed to have a genuinely civil conversation with Mimi._

And he needed to sleep. As Paul approached the door to the motel room, he paused, teetering on his feet so that he nearly leaned his forehead against the peephole. He wondered if John was asleep, or maybe pretending to be… if he was truly asleep, Paul could sleep too. Just maybe. Safe in the knowledge that John was getting rest. And then he could try and convince his best mate to eat some eggs tomorrow, and they could go pick out more carnations.

Paul fumbled the motel key into the lock and made his way inside.

John was sitting up in bed. He watched Paul stumble into the room; his expression the same tired one that had haunted his face for the past few days. All baggy eyes and downturned mouth and eyebrows crinkled up like a paper bag after lunch on a school field trip.

Their eyes locked and then John extracted his hand from the twisted sheets and patted the mattress beside him.

Paul did not hesitate. He obediently kicked off his shoes and climbed into bed beside John, still in his shirt and jeans. He tried not to shiver when John wrapped his arms, ever-so-lightly, around Paul’s waist. Paul immediately reciprocated, except his touch was not gentle. He crushed John against his torso in a hug. His palms flat against the cool skin of John’s back.

There was a large, almost painful moment of quiet, where all Paul could hear was their mingled breath. And then John let out a tiny, indistinct whimper, and Paul hugged him tighter and buried his face in John’s neck and whispered something about letting it out.

John did.

Quiet whimpers quickly turned into painful, chest-aching sobs, and Paul could feel John’s tears soaking into the collar of his t-shirt. He did his best to be soothing, rubbing patterns into his friend’s back and murmuring.

“I know, I know. You’re okay, love. It’s all going to be okay, I’m right here.”

John just sobbed harder and clutched the back of Paul’s shirt in tight fists.

It seemed like they stayed like that for an eternity, with John truly crying, in an unrestrained manner that Paul had never seen before. Not when he broke his toe, not when they found that cat that had gotten hit by a car, not even at his own mother’s funeral. Paul held John to his chest and cooed at him and desperately wished that he could do something more.

John’s breath hitched a few times and Paul could hear him snuffling, beginning to calm down. “Just breathe, John,” he murmured. “I know how you feel.”

Despite John’s face being hidden against Paul’s sternum, he could feel John nod, once, twice. He sighed in relief and ran his palms over John’s sides.

“Thank you,” John croaked after a moment, and Paul reached down to scratch his fingers against John’s scalp.

“Of course,” Paul said, and of course it was an _of course_ because why wouldn’t he do this for John? “Hey, can you look at me? Come here.”

“I’m about as close as I can bloody well get,” John muttered, and Paul almost laughed. The glint of John underneath this sad and shallow husk of a man was excellent to see. The sun shining behind a raincloud.

Nevertheless, John scooted upward and leaned his head back so he could look up at Paul, who reached out to take John’s face in both hands.

“How can I help you, love?” Paul asked softly, wiping tears from John’s cheekbones with his thumb. John’s lower lip trembled again, and then he turned his face into Paul’s palm, just as he had done back in Lancaster. It felt like such a long time ago.

“This is good,” John said, voice hoarse. “This is really good. Jus’… would you stay with me?” He reached out and gripped the front of Paul’s shirt with both hands, looking up at him with vulnerable puppy-dog eyes that Paul might have died for under other circumstances. “Not like… down there. Up here, with me,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the bottom of the bed.

Paul nodded, wrapping himself around John, allowing himself to trace his fingers across the freckled expanse of John’s bare back. His friend sighed and Paul felt some of that weight lift once more.

Maybe George _was_ right. But maybe it was more about asking rather than knowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and thank you to mossintheconcrete for beta-ing!! I'm going on holiday for a week, so no chapter next week... please feel free to lament this great & terrible loss in the comments lmao
> 
> You can check out my Tumblr @flightofthebluealiens for almost no content. 
> 
> We're drawing near to the end, folks. I'm almost sad. :(


	9. Felixstowe, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins to heal, Paul loves to hate the Great Gatsby, and the story reaches its climax-- get your mind out of the gutter.

That first night was the first brick taken out of John’s emotional wall, and when Paul woke up with John still puffy-eyed and red-faced in his arms, he would have bought a million sticks of dynamite if it meant blowing down that wall. He would have done anything to make sure John knew it was okay, that it was all going to get better, that Paul would make sure of it.

He didn’t have to do anything for the night. John slept on, snuffling in his sleep with his face buried into Paul’s chest. Paul carded his fingers through John’s hair and wondered what this meant. For John’s mourning, for their friendship. For _them._

\------

“I don’t know what I expected,” said John.

Paul looked up at him curiously. John was propped up on his elbow, flipping through a soap opera catalog while Paul dozed at his side. It would have been surprisingly domestic if it weren’t for the circumstances.

“With Alf, I mean,” John clarified. He had taken to calling his father ‘Alf,’ as though that would separate the father he wanted from the man in the grave. “Mos’ of the people I care about end up dead.” _Julia. Uncle George. Alf._

Paul propped himself up too, looking John right in the eye. “I hope you didn’t jus’ set me up to die early, you wanker.”

Normally, John would have laughed. But all he did was smile sadly and watch Paul’s face like his time, too, was running out.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Paul muttered and reached out to take John’s hand. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise I won’t die on you.”

A glint in John’s eye. “It would be rather inconvenient if you did. Dead bodies are awfully heavy.”

Paul laughed and went to let go of John’s hand, but then John squeezed. He held on for a while longer and tried desperately not to read into it.

\------

He awoke in the late hours of the night to John shifting around in bed, turning so that his face was by Paul’s rather than his feet. Paul kept his eyes shut and breathing even in the hopes of getting back to sleep without John’s provocation.

“Macca, are you awake? I can’t sleep.”

_Well, shit._

“Have you tried?” Paul asked, his voice coming out hoarse. He reached over to flick the lamp on and winced when his eyes met the light.

John was propping himself up on his elbow, almost directly over Paul, who couldn’t decide whether to gaze at John’s sleepy face with rapture or tell him to get his armpit out of his face.

“Why, no, I’ve been playin’ tennis and takin’ shots,” John said dryly, blinking against the sudden brightness and squinting down at Paul. “ _Yes,_ I’ve tried to go to sleep.”

“Don’t be such an arse.”

“That tends to happen when I don’t get proper rest,” John said. He sounded impressively like a toddler. Paul decided to sit up and avoid the armpit.

“What do you want me to do about it? Make you some warm milk? Sing a happy little lullaby?”

“Now who’s bein’ the arse?”

“I was _sleepin.’_ ”

“Yeah, an’ now you’re up, so why don’t you read to me.” John tossed his copy of _The Great Gatsby_ onto Paul’s chest, where it landed with a slightly painful _thwack._ Paul ran his thumb over the pages and noted that several spots had already been dog-eared. He smiled to himself and looked up to find that John was gazing at him with the same expression.

Paul quickly wiped the smile off his face and faked indignity. “ _Read_ to you?”

“It’s this thing where you look at a page full up with words and say the words out loud. I reckon you learned to do it at one point, but I’ve yet to see proof.”

“Wow, you’re really convincin’ me to help you out here,” Paul said, tapping the book lightly against John’s arm. He blinked at Paul with suspicion. Or maybe it wasn’t really suspicion so much as it was the fact that John had left his glasses on the counter in the bathroom.

A moment passed. “...come on, Paul love. Please,” John wheedled.

Hesitation that was not hesitation. Paul did his best to look as though he was deep in thought about this, suppressing a smile at the impatience explicit on John’s face.

“Alright,” he relented. “But you can’t interrupt. No talkin’ about historical context and symbolism or whatever else it is you talk about in your little book club.”

“If by ‘book club’ you mean literary analysis class, then yeah, you got it dead on.”

“Shhhh. No metaphors,” Paul said, opening the book and making himself comfortable against the bed’s headboard.

“That’s not a bloody metaphor--”

Paul began, “ _In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since._ ”

He paused and waited for John to say something, and when he didn’t, Paul continued. “ _‘Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,’ he told me, ‘just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages you have.’ He didn’t say any more but we have always been unusually communicative in a reserved way…_ ”

Drifting through the pages of the book, Paul read aloud but allowed his thoughts to wander. Without John’s running commentary and incessant need to add on to the author’s writing, the story seemed somehow mindless; whether that was good or bad he could not decide.

The sound of John’s breath, close to his ear, and the feeling of his arm resting over Paul’s stomach was almost soothing. By the twentieth page, Paul found that he could not slip into this story as seamlessly as others. _It’s the characters,_ he thought, all beautiful, sophisticated rich people except for the narrator, Nick; and he fit in with them just as well despite all his false surprise and indignance.

He could see why John might think the story was a big metaphor. All the white dresses and champagne and overabundance of dancing, and it seemed that the author was almost making fun of the people he wrote about. Like he, too, thought they were fools. ‘ _They were not invited, they went there._ ’ ‘ _I never care what I do, I always have a good time._ ’

Paul stopped at the beginning of chapter four. John was asleep, arms wrapped around Paul’s waist, lips slightly parted and eyebrows scrunched together. He reached out and smoothed the wrinkles with a thumb, then closed the book and leaned over John to put it on the bedside table.

“Good night, darlin’,” he whispered. “I think I’m gettin’ the hang of this whole ‘literary analysis’ thing.”

To his surprise, John hummed and wrapped himself tighter around Paul. 

“The dresses are a metaphor,” he murmured.

\------

“How would you feel about going to see his grave?” Paul tried to bring it up casually, sitting next to John on the bed while they ate pizza. Sauce was getting all over the sheets but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care when John was scarfing down slices of veggie pizza like his life depended on it. He didn’t even seem to notice that there wasn’t meat on it.

“Why should I?” John asked, as though the answer wasn’t obvious. His eyes were fixed on some cheesy, teeny-bopper movie from the fifties or sixties. There were a lot of girls in bikinis; it said a lot that Paul was paying attention to this greasy mop of a boy over the birds.

Paul said, “‘Cause he was your da and we came all this way to find him.”

“Found him,” John responded, almost in sing-song. “Nothin’ left to see, innit?”

Paul looked down at the cardboard box they were eating out of and decided to leave the last piece of pizza for John. It was _not_ bribery, fuck you.

“Well, we can’t just sit around here,” Paul said.

John took another huge bite of pizza and talked around it, spraying little bits of cheese on the comforter. Paul shot him a disapproving, motherly glare and pondered calling housekeeping about new bedding. “Maybe _you_ can’t,” he said, “but I certainly can. In fact, sittin’ is one of my special talents.”

“What about the bike? Won’t it get damaged if it just sits out there?”

That gave John pause. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Should probably go move it.”

“Great!” Paul exclaimed cheerfully. “We can move it to the Tesco and get some flowers, and then move it over to the graveyard so you can pay your respects.”

“...I’ll do it tomorrow.”

\------

He was laying in Paul’s arms again and the clock read eleven but Paul had never felt so awake; listening to John’s voice, soft but cutting through the darkness. John’s fingers traced over Paul’s chest and upper arm as though trying to map something out.

“I don’t know,” John said. Paul hated not knowing things. He hated not knowing why Alf had been in Felixstowe or how he had died or even why he had left in the first place. How he had gotten off the ship. Whether he had truly loved Julia and John.

John continued, “I thought he was goin’ to be some great guy. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Paul said, rubbing his thumb over John’s hipbone. It was horrible. He felt like he was sticking his hand in a wasp’s nest, but he couldn’t _stop,_ so he would repeat the motion until John shifted away from it. 

Then he would find something else to do, some other way to touch.

“It’s stupid,” John repeated. “I had this fantasy, y’know? That he would freak out ‘cause _my only son’s home, oh God, I missed you so very much Johnny_ an’ maybe invite me into his nice suburban house, an’ we would spend time together, but then I would eventually need to go home an’ he would ask me to stay. _Could you ever truly be happy here, son?_ An’ I would respectfully decline and go off on my merry way.”

“I can’t imagine you doin’ anythin’ respectfully,” Paul joked and earned a gentle shove to the chest for his troubles. John’s hand rested in the same spot afterward and Paul felt so full he could’ve burst.

“But I didn’t imagine he was, y’know, _dead,_ ” John continued, ignoring Paul’s interruption and getting quieter by the word. “It’s jus’ unbelievable.”

Paul hummed and wrapped his arm tighter around John’s waist.

It did seem impossible that the trail of breadcrumbs they had been following since Lancaster had been dropped nearly a decade ago. It seemed even more impossible that nobody they had spoken to had known.

 _Someone_ had to have known. And that was even worse because someone had known Alf was dead and had still sent them off on their merry way. Paul thought of the oafish man in the London bar and wished he had thrown a punch while he had the chance.

“Did I ever tell you about Julia’s funeral?” asked John.

 _He didn’t see me there._ Paul had known before, but that confirmed it. There had always been a combination of sadness and relief thinking that John had not known he was at Julia’s funeral; a comfort in that John and his family were allowed to mourn together and an ache, deep, deep in Paul’s heart, knowing that John had not gotten the chance to mourn properly.

“No,” said Paul.

John tangled and untangled his fingers in the fabric of Paul’s shirt. “Mimi gave the eulogy,” he said. “Which figures. I mean, it’s not like I was gonna do it. Or Twitchy.”

Speaking of twitchy, the corner of Paul’s mouth almost quirked upward at the mention of John’s stepfather. But not quite.

“An’ she was goin’ on and on about how I reminded her of Julia, an’ the whole fuckin’ church is cryin’,” John said. “An’ you know what?”

“What?”

“Not a single fuckin’ tear,” he said. “I couldn’t cry. It was jus’... I wasn’t sad, almost? I mean, I was devastated, obviously, but I wasn’t _sad._ It didn’t even really seem like she was gone.”

Paul nodded into the top of John’s head, trying his best to listen like he hadn’t seen it all before.

“Maybe ‘cause I thought my da was still out there. It was like she couldn’t be gone if he was still out there, ‘cause I always figured that if one of them died, I’d still have the other parent.” _Like you_ was unspoken, but still rang out through the room. Paul watched the wallpaper with sudden intent. “They couldn’t _both_ be gone. So I started savin’ up to go find him, only to discover the bastard’s dead.”

Despite the apparent bitterness of John’s words, there was no bitterness in his tone. It was unfamiliar to Paul, who felt he could do nothing else but hum encouragements into the curls of John’s hair and try not to coo over him. _Thank you, John love, for opening up to me…_

That would go over like feeding dog shit to the queen mum.

“It was different this time,” John said, near a whisper. “ _Both_ of them were gone this time.”

“But it’s all goin’ to be okay,” Paul promised swiftly, just as quiet as John. He ran the palm of his hand over the curve of John’s spine, once, twice. “You’re so brave for even botherin’ to look for him. I wouldn’t have done it.”

“You came with me,” John pointed out in what was probably intended to be teasing, but there was a softness to his tone that Paul wanted to bottle up and store forever.

“Not _my_ da,” Paul whispered. He rocked back and forth slightly, as though trying to soothe a baby to sleep. “You’re so brave, John.”

“You’re daft, you are,” John murmured. Paul listened to him yawn and felt him nuzzle his nose against Paul’s neck as they drifted into silence and sleep. 

So he would take being daft if it meant this.

\------

“Where is it?” John asked.

Paul set down the knife and paused the dicing of the onions. He was near tears. “Where’s what?”

“The grave,” John said, as though that should be obvious.

“The third row on the left in the front,” Paul said.

John cocked an eyebrow at him and Paul shrugged. He was beyond embarrassment by this point. Picking the knife back up, he curled his fingertips and resumed chopping.

“What does it say, then?” John asked.

Paul looked up again, watching John assume his ‘casual’ stance, leaning against the counter and pushing a drawer in and out and refusing to make eye contact. He might as well have been whistling.

“I don’t know,” Paul said. “‘You have all our love’ and a Bible verse or something.”

“Alright,” said John, apparently satisfied. He wandered back to the armchair, where he curled his feet under himself and resumed his position watching _St. Elmo’s Fire._ Lazy arse.

Paul shook his head fondly and resumed his work.

With any luck, the questioning was the beginning of John deciding to go to the graveyard himself.

He would never force John. He just thought it would bring him some sort of closure. The collapse at the gate had been an opening, leaving flowers would be a closing. Not unlike this journey, opening with a tragedy of a miscommunication and closing with…

Well, he supposed it wasn’t technically over yet. Ending with Paul making yakisoba on a motel hot plate would be more than a little sad.

\------

“I’m hungry,” John announced loudly, not looking up from his book. Paul, who was on the bed beside him and trying to sleep, considered throttling him. No, I’d feel guilty and confess to the murder.

This is why I should’ve remained blissfully unaware of my feelings.

“We haven’t got anythin’ to eat,” Paul said.

“What about the yakisoba?”

“I ate that for lunch.”

“Thanks a lot,” John said, putting his book aside to glare at Paul, who felt this was thoroughly undeserved.

“Well, what else was I supposed to eat? An’ I’m the one who made it anyway. There’s a rule about that, y’know,” Paul said defensively. 

John’s expression was one of unmistakable disinterest. “Yeah? An’ what’s that?”

“I thought that was pretty self-explanatory? Whoever makes it gets to eat the last of it?”

“Oh. I suppose.” John grabbed the television remote.

“Come on, turn off the bloody telly. Let’s go out for supper.”

“Why? We can jus’ order somethin’,” John muttered, distracted by the glowing screen. Paul sighed.

“But I’m tired of takeout.”

“Then stop orderin’ the same takeout.”

“ _Come on,_ John, let’s go out,” he pleaded. “Get some Italian or somethin’. It’s jus’ down the street.”

“What, you’re scoutin’ out restaurants now?”

“Deflectin’,” Paul said, fake-coughing around the word.

“I am not!” John responded indignantly, finally turning away from the telly.

“Yes, you are.” Paul stretched his arms over his head and sat up. “Get up. Please?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m workin’ on it,” John grumbled, and flipped the television off. Paul’s silent cheering may not have been so silent, as he earned another glare from John promptly after.

He collected his clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. Paul laid his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes, hoping to get in some more sleep before John returned.

It was good that John was taking a shower; he hadn’t in almost a week now. Paul pursed his lips in thought. It was day… twenty-one? _Yeah, that sounds right._ And they had arrived in Felixstowe five days ago, which was a couple of days after the last time he showered. So it had been _over_ a week.

This was a good sign. A sign of recovery, right? Taking care of yourself again?

John was suddenly standing in the doorway of the bathroom, looking at the floor and wringing one of his wrists. Paul frowned. This was _not_ a good sign. 

“Alright, this is gonna sound weird, an’ don’t take it the wrong way…”

“What is it?” Paul asked quickly. Worried when John hesitated.

“I jus’...” he sighed, as though resigning himself to his fate. “I don’t wanna be alone. Can you…”

Oh. _Oh._

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, of course, jus’ give me a moment…”

When Paul came into the bathroom, he didn’t knock, and he walked in just as John was taking off his shirt, facing away from him.

Thank God for shower curtains, because he didn’t know how he was supposed to keep his eyes off all of _that._ John had freckles on his shoulder blades and dimples just above where his spine disappeared into his pants. He was softer than Paul, the individual bones in his spine and ribs not quite so visible, the slightest bit of baby fat still clinging to his waistline…

He wanted to reach out and map it out, every mark and divet, every difference to his own body.

“Uhm, Macca?”

“Yes?” Paul squeaked, averting his eyes and staring hard at the ceiling.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the mortified expression on John’s face. “I meant-- I meant, like, come in with me. Sorry.”

“Oh!” Paul’s voice had risen another octave. _Jesus Christ._

“Jesus, this is fuckin’ awkward, I’m sorry--” John was shifting from foot to foot, and Paul could see his bare shoulders move as he hunched in on himself.

“Nonono, it’s okay,” Paul rushed out. “I’ll be there in a second.” 

He didn’t think he had ever heard John apologize like that.

 _God, I’ve done it now,_ he thought miserably, sitting down on the closed toilet lid as John turned on the water, adjusted the temperature, and climbed in. This was possibly one of the worst decisions he had ever made. He could hear George laughing from Liverpool.

Paul took a deep breath, then another one, considered the logistics of climbing out the window and running away before he finally stood up to strip off his jeans and shirt. Instead of climbing out the window, he climbed over the side of the bathtub and into the shower.

“This is tiny as fuck,” he couldn’t help saying when he ended up practically chest-to-back with John in the tub. Mercifully, John laughed, looking over his shoulder at Paul.

Water was dripping into John’s eyes and soaking his hair and his skin. Paul’s mouth felt dry.

 _This is thoroughly unsexy,_ some logical part of his brain said. _You’re wearing your underwear and they’re getting heavy because it’s wet fucking cotton and you’re an_ idiot.

“Shove over,” Paul muttered, scooting past John so he could duck his head under the warm water. He sighed. It was rather soothing, and now he had an excuse to shut his eyes without looking like a dick. So that was good.

John’s hand was suddenly resting on his hip.

“Sorry. It’s cold,” John muttered, looking sheepish, and pressed closer to Paul.

It didn’t feel quite so awkward and terrible once they weren’t completely avoiding each other. Paul leaned into the hand on his waist despite his better judgment and stifled a yawn into his shoulder, watching as John reached around him for the dinky little motel shampoo bottle.

“Here, let me do that,” Paul said on a whim, turning around and taking it from him.

John looked apprehensive but closed his eyes tight as Paul pressed his soapy fingers into the curls of John’s hair. He hadn’t realized how _soft_ John’s hair was, even when it was dirty.

“Mmmm. That feels good,” John mumbled, teetering forward as though he was going to press his face into Paul’s shoulder. His eyes flickered open, meeting Paul’s, and he wanted to lean in and close that little bit of distance between them, kiss John and run his hands over those dimples in his back and tug on all this soft hair… 

This translated into a quiet: “Yeah? Close your eyes, there we go…”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever done this for me before,” John said, humming in bliss as Paul’s fingernails scratched against his scalp. _Noted,_ thought Paul, and did it again.

“You’re gonna get soap in your mouth,” Paul chided. “Stop talkin’.”

“Mimi’s always sayin’ I curse too much. Might well wash it out a bit,” John said, and Paul snorted as he tangled his fingers in the hair at the nape of John’s neck.

There was a pause in conversation as Paul finished washing John’s hair, taking a bit longer than what was probably strictly necessary, and he stood out of the spray of the showerhead and shivered while John rinsed out the shampoo.

He was so beautiful it was almost painful. The water glued his long eyelashes into delicate little triangles, his eyelids fluttering as he tipped his head back into the running water, exposing the line of his throat. Paul stared at his Adam’s apple and remembered the way John had looked at him the same way, drunk in Lancaster and staring at his throat. He wondered what John had thought, if he had wanted to kiss Paul’s neck or if he was merely looking where his eyes had landed, under the influence of far too much cheap alcohol.

Paul couldn’t decide if he wanted to wash John’s hair again and hear the delighted noises he made or run his teeth over the shadow of his collarbones.

“Alright, come here. Your turn,” John said, reaching up to pull on a bit of Paul’s hair.

He felt like his thoughts were written in pen on his face, able to be read by anyone looking, and he couldn’t quite look John in the eye thinking that his friend might know exactly what he wanted.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Paul responded nervously. He folded his arms over his chest and hunched his shoulders up, a combination of shame and cold.

“Well, neither did you. Shuddup and come here.”

“So polite,” he said but obliged anyway.

After they were through, John gathered up his clothes and volunteered to change out in the room.

“Thanks, Macca. That was…” John’s fingers drifted up to pet at his own hair. “Felt good.”

Paul was caught between pride that he had made John happy and trying not to imagine those words in another context. “Yeah,” he said breathlessly. “Yeah, anytime.”

There was the echo of a smirk on John’s face as he left the room.

“Fuck,” said Paul emphatically. It managed to encompass everything.

\------

The restaurant was warm and dark in the way that almost all Italian restaurants are warm and dark; like half the lightbulbs are missing and it’s perpetually half-past-ten at night. Paul couldn't decide if the ‘mood lighting’ was making him sleepy, or maybe the red wine.

Either way, watching John pull apart bread and swipe it through olive oil was not particularly invigorating, no matter how much he adored the lad.

The tall, lanky blond waiter who had taken their orders bore more than a passing resemblance to their mutual friend Ivan, and when the man disappeared into the kitchen, Paul looked over to find John already giving him the look. He fought a grin.

“Look how far we’ve come, sittin’ in a chain restaurant with Ivan as our waiter.”

“Hasn’t got the proper eyebrows,” John said, waving it off. “They’re far too thin. An’ we haven’t gone far. Don’t you know England’s all the same?”

“You made it tolerable enough. Except Birmingham,” Paul said, thinking of Birmingham with the kind of contempt one usually reserved for sweaty gym socks and overcooked brussels sprouts.

“An’ Swindon.”

“An’ most of London.”

“An’ Lancaster…” John paused, shoving another piece of bread into his mouth. Paul shot him a disapproving, rather motherly look. “Okay, so it wasn’t the most grand of trips. We’ll have to do better next time.”

Something in Paul’s heart fluttered, and he leaned forward, putting his elbow on the table and resting his chin on his hand. “You reckon there’s gonna be a next time?”

“Why, Mister McCartney, of course! Since you enjoy my company so much, I figured I’d do you the honor of becoming my traveling partner.”

 _Traveling partner._ Paul wanted to lean across the table and plant one on him for that. He allowed his thoughts to drift for a moment, ideas floating lazily through his head of Japan and Iceland and Belgium, maybe even America… places he had only seen on the news and faded, folded classroom maps. He could easily imagine exploring these places with John, motorbike or not. Maybe they could go backpacking or something.

And then he remembered it, planted in his head back in Bristol.

“Only if we get to go to Paris,” Paul said decisively.

“Why Paris?”

“‘Cause I want to go to Paris. Have you got a problem with that?” Paul raised an eyebrow and John raised one right back. _Challenges, challenges._

“Of course not. It’s the most romantic city in the world, you know,” John said, and was that a hint in his voice? A suggestion? Wishful thinking on Paul’s part?

A pause and Paul thought maybe he should have said something by now, but he and John held each other’s gaze until Paul suddenly jumped at the sensation of something pushing up the leg of his jeans and rubbing at his ankle.

“...get your foot out of my trousers,” Paul said.

John laughed and Paul was forced to smile along with him, even if he could still feel the echo of the touch against his ankle. Wanted to reach down and touch it.

“Can’t help it, Macca, the mention of Paris gets me all worked up. Eating weird slimy creatures.” John waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “And that’s only if you get a model.”

“God, you’re an arse,” Paul snorted.

“Y’know, that’s actually what they’ll say to you. Except remove the an.”

 _There’s no way he just said that,_ Paul thought, _there’s no way John fucking Lennon just commented on my arse._ He was half-expecting Rod Serling to pop out of the nearby flowerpot and start talking about the Twilight Zone. 

Paul’s face felt far too hot. Hopefully, the ‘mood lighting’ would keep him from total humiliation.

“I’ll have you know that I’m not interested in a model,” he managed to choke out, staring down at his empty plate as though it had the lost contents of the Library of Alexandria printed on it.

“Oh?” John’s voice was somewhere between mocking and… _well._ “An’ who are you interested in, then?”

A long pause. Too long. He had to say something before it became awkward.

“Would it be in bad taste to say your mum?” Paul blurted.

There was another strange beat of silence, John staring at him in bewilderment and then suddenly cackling. It was contagious and Paul began laughing too, if not so much out of amusement than out of relief that he had not laid all his cards out quite yet.

“She’d probably be flattered. D’you remember when she asked you about your pants size?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Paul exclaimed, remembering the mortification like it was yesterday. “An’ I thought she meant trousers, so I was goin’ on and on about my jeans?”

More laughter.

“The look on your face when you figured it out was priceless,” John said, mirroring Paul’s position and leaning on his hand.

“At least she didn’t have pants to give me or somethin’. I think I would’ve jus’ about died if she had thrown a pack of Calvin Klein at me.”

John smiled but it was conflicted and bittersweet around the edges and Paul wanted to frown at the sight of it. Or maybe wrap John up in his arms again so that he could talk about Julia forever and never hesitate like he did now.

“I miss her a lot,” John admitted, drumming his fingertips on the tabletop. “Sometimes I can still hear her singin’, when Bruce Springsteen is on the radio or the like. Do you remember that record she used to play all the time?”

“ _Tunnel of Love_ or _Nebraska?_ ” Paul asked, remembering both. Remembering rainy spring afternoons spent in the sunroom, watching droplets of water beat down on the glass; listening to Springsteen and the overloud sound of the washing machine upstairs.

“I think it was _Nebraska._ That one song off it… the harmonica solo in the beginnin’.” John held his hands up to his mouth like he was playing a harmonica himself, whistling vague notes.

Paul knew the tune. “ _There’s a place out on the edge of town, sir…_ ”

“Yeah, yeah! That one…” John smiled wistfully and Paul knew he was thinking of the same things. Sitting knee-to-knee and trading improvisational bars of music back and forth, Julia’s good-natured grumbling about wet boots over the squeals of John’s half-sisters, the endless supply of cheese sandwiches and tea Julia made to ‘tide them over until dinner.’

And that song. It played relentlessly throughout the first year of their friendship, always on the record player in the front room, even when it was dinnertime. Even when John and Paul were already blasting music from another part of the house. Even when it was nearly ten at night and Paul _really should be heading back now, thank you so much for your hospitality_ and Julia guilted him into staying in the spare room with John.

“I don’t remember what it’s called,” the devil (speak of him) said.

“Me either. But she liked it a lot,” Paul said softly. _Probably more than anybody else in the whole world liked it._

“I think she wore the grooves twice as deep from playin’ that damn record.” John took a sip from his wine, surprisingly restrained, given the topic at hand.

“...I miss her too,” Paul said, and it was more thinking out loud than anything but John still shot him a grateful little smile as the waiter approached with plates of lasagne and ravioli.

A few minutes passed in silence and something began to nag at Paul.

“Do you miss your da, too?” he asked. “Sorry, it’s jus’... I dunno if you even remember him.”

“Bits an’ pieces. I remember takin’ the train with him to Blackpool. I must’ve been seven or eight, and it was lunchtime but he had a glass of whiskey and I was sittin’ on his lap lookin’ out the window. I remember all the little buildings goin’ by.” John was looking down at his pasta, but Paul could hear it in his voice, the combination of melancholy and nostalgia and even anger. A little boy’s emotions when he looked back at the few precious moments he had with his father.

“Yeah?” Paul asked softly.

“Yeah,” said John, and he smiled with the following recollection. “An’ I remember playin’ with a broom or somethin’ in the first house before I started living with Mimi. Stuck it in the fireplace pretendin’ to be a chimney sweep ‘cause I had jus’ watched _Mary Poppins._ I think Julia tried to take off my left arse cheek for that one.”

Paul laughed because it was just so _John_ that it hurt. He pictured a younger version of John, shorter and softer but with the same nose and mischievousness, running from an exasperated Julia and his heart softened. “So you’ve always been like this?”

“Charmin’ an’ desirable? Of course.”

 _You’re so daft,_ Paul thought, feeling so fond he thought his heart might pop out of his chest. He wished he could reach out and take hold of John’s hand, resting beside his on the table.

“What’d you get up to, then?” John asked. “Other than schoolwork and football and whatever else your da thought was _proper._ ”

“Never played football. I don’t have the balance for it. Most of my time was spent playing Nintendo 64 or, like, goin’ to ponds and pokin’ frogs with sticks.”

“Not very vegetarian of you,” John said, eyebrows raising microscopically.

“I was six. An’ I looked like a frog, so it was okay,” Paul said.

“You did _not._ I bet you’ve always looked like this.” John gestured vaguely to Paul with his fork.

“ _This?_ ” Paul asked, his heart jumping again. He leaned forward again, batting his eyelashes mockingly and doing his best not to put his elbow in his ravioli.

John’s eyes were wide and he refused to look at Paul. It might have been the lighting, but Paul thought he might have been flushing. _Fantastic._

“Normal. Fine and average.”

“Piss off,” Paul said, grinning and unable to stop. “I looked like a frog and George had a Dee Dee Ramone haircut.”

“Cor, I’ve got to get my hands on some of these pictures,” John said, snorting.

“There’s this one picture his mum took… I think we’re in the parlor. And _covered_ in mud. We tracked it all over the house, an’ his mum came in, an’ we were playin’ Hot Wheels under the table tryin’ to hide from her.” Paul shuddered at the memory. The white rug and white couches were not spared.

John, who seemed unable to feel empathy for young Paul and George, was laughing. “I’ll bet she was pissed.”

“Oh, you have no idea. I reckon that’s the only time I’ve ever been sent home from George’s.”

“What else did you and our George get up to?” John tipped his head, looking genuinely curious. It was endearing.

“Well, there was this one Halloween…. We must’ve been twelve,” Paul said, trying to remember the October in question. He had just learned to ride a bike, and he had bought his first Prince record after a school dance at which he had heard _If I Was Your Girlfriend._

He continued, “We were dressed up as characters from Star Trek, right? It was a group costume with these two other lads from down the street, plus some girl as Uhura, who was only there ‘cause George fancied her… anyway. My da insisted we take Mike along, but Mike was dressed up as a ghost. Sheet and everythin’.”

“Guess we know who the favourite was.”

“Hey, shut your trap, I raised the money for my costume mowin’ lawns. An’ I’m tellin’ the story here. So we all complained, but then Mike says he’s the _ghost of my popularity once I go out dressed as Spock._ ”

“You were _Spock?_ ” John cackled, disturbing some of the nearby diners. Paul found that he didn’t care if John was laughing. “He had a point, love.”

“Oi, you’re not supposed to agree with him!” Paul protested. “I’ve never forgiven him. That’s when he became a right bastard and we stopped bein’ friends.”

“Poor Macca,” John cooed. “Probably looked right cute as Spock, if it’s any consolation.”

Paul was blushing furiously and he knew it and that was just so _unfair._ “There’s pictures somewhere at George’s. If you want to see,” he muttered, picking at a ravioli.

“That’s my first stop when we get home,” John said cheerfully.

A comfortable silence settled over the pair like a blanket as they finished their meal, glancing at each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking, and sometimes when they thought the other was.

“Well, now what?” Paul asked as they emerged into the early evening air. “This is your night, after all.”

John paused dramatically. “I’m thinkin’ of a five-letter word that starts with _O_ and ends with _N._ ”

Paul thought for a moment, counted out letters on his fingers, and then frowned. “...onion?”

“Christ. I worry about you sometimes. _Ocean._ ”

\------

It was cold at the beach. Cold, by definition, meant ‘of or at a low or relatively low temperature, especially when compared with the human body.’ When compared with Paul’s body, the beach must have been the Arctic circle, or perhaps liquid nitrogen.

Paul didn’t know why he had expected any different; even in July, English water was bloody freezing and the wind coming off the ocean chilled him to his bones. He was barefoot in the sand, and yet wearing a sweater. _Daft._

They were trying to skip rocks across the waves, _they_ meaning John. Paul watched as he went through the motions of his process: first, John would find a smooth rock among all the jagged pebbles, hunting for it much like a crow would hunt for something shiny. Next, John would wait until the waves rolled back, and then dart out and toss it across the water. Then the waves would start coming back, and John would run frantically back toward the piece of driftwood Paul was sitting on, whooping as if he had just won the lottery.

The rock usually skipped once or twice. Once, it skipped three times, and John had been so delighted Paul had nearly been knocked off the driftwood by the ensuing tackle-hug.

It was incredibly endearing and also incredibly _fucking cold outside, Jesus, John, how long are you going to take?_

Paul watched as John gave a particularly large rock a heave, and to his surprise… _well, it skipped three times, how about that._ Paul clapped, half-mocking and half-serious, and John turned to look at him, beaming.

Cause: Paul had distracted John. Effect: The waves crashed back in and John did not get out of the way in time.

Squealing, John struggled his way out of the water, jeans soaked halfway up the calves. He sprinted the rest of the way to Paul, who was holding his sides in laughter, and swatted him on the back of the head.

“Oi! What was that for?”

“You shouldn’t laugh at the misfortune of others,” John said, grinning as he collapsed onto the log beside Paul. “Especially not when it’s your fault.”

“It is _not_ my fault!” Paul protested.

John shook his head in mock disappointment. “Can’t even confess to your crimes.”

Paul rolled his eyes and went to take off his sweater. “Here, have this. You’re goin’ to catch cold.”

“Gee, thanks ma,” said John, “but I’m okay.”

They both rolled their eyes, practically in unison, and Paul watched John as he stared out at the sea.

He had thought they were going to die, just like Alf, but they had made it out of the woods. Paul’s eyelids still felt too heavy and John still had that pale look to his skin but they had done it. They had fought their way to this moment and Paul was the proudest he’d ever been.

He watched John’s profile as he slouched; propping himself up with spread palms, leaning his head to the right so that he could push his glasses up using his shoulder. John stared out at the ocean as though those glasses let him see something Paul couldn’t.

 _I could do this forever,_ he thought, tracing the bridge of John’s nose with his eyes. _If you asked me to, I could sit here forever, even in the middle of winter when I’d get frostbite on my toes._

John looked over and seemed surprised to find Paul staring, but he offered a shy little smile and Paul took it hungrily, beaming back at him.

“What is it?” John asked.

“Jus’ thinking,” Paul said.

“First time for everythin’,” John said, sounding like an echo of faraway George. Paul looked down at his lap and smiled too.

Paul licked his lips and did indeed think. Maybe he should just ask. Clear whatever strange tension was still surrounding the topic. _Hey John, when did you realize you like boys? Also, do you happen to like a specific boy, who happens to be me?_

Maybe not exactly like that.

“Hey, can I ask you somethin’? It’s a stupid question, really, an’ you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” He knew he was blabbering but the bemused look on John’s face made it lovely.

“Yeah, whatever,” John said. Quite concise. Paul should have taken notes.

Paul took a deep breath, but he still had to look down at his toes rather than at John to ask. “So, uh, don’t take this the wrong way… but when did you realize you fancy, uh, y’know, _men?_ ”

A few moments passed. John did not respond, and Paul fidgeted, curling and uncurling his toes. He pressed his thumbnail hard into the pad of his index finger.

More silence. _Christ,_ he hadn’t read it wrong, had he? Paul braved a glance at John. He was just _staring_ at Paul, open-mouthed, eyebrows clenched together and eyes narrowed a little. It would have been comical in another scenario, where Paul wasn’t being horrifically awkward and probably a little invasive.

“Yeah, I don’t think I wanna answer that,” John finally said, much quieter than before.

“Yeah, alright, sorry,” Paul said and winced a little.

Okay, so he could wait. He could wait as long as it took for John to feel comfortable enough with him to talk to him about all that. It wasn’t even that big a deal. Paul could wait if it was for him, and he was working himself up to telling John that when John suddenly darted forward and kissed him right on the mouth.

Well, it wasn’t _right_ on the mouth, because John sort of missed and he kissed his chin more than anything else and Paul had jumped in surprise so it had been jostled even more. And it was more of a peck than anything. John sat back so quickly that Paul hardly realized what had just happened until they were sitting there staring at each other.

_What the fuck. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck--_

It seemed they were just as in sync as always because there was another rush of movement and they were crashing together, and it was better than Paul could have ever imagined even if they both tasted far too much like garlic. _Damn Italian food._ Paul had tangled his fingers into John’s hair and John was cradling Paul’s elbows in his hands and it was… beyond words. Fantastic. He hadn’t expected John’s lips to be quite so soft, especially coinciding with his stubble, scratchy against Paul’s chin. John didn’t kiss like a girl, but he did make a happy little noise when Paul tugged on his hair, and Paul smiled so hard it was interfering with the kiss.

John’s hands had landed on his lower back and he was trying to pull Paul closer, and Paul was getting so carried away that he nearly climbed into his lap. Then he remembered.

He thought of the man from Stoke-on-Trent, who had sucked a mark onto John’s jaw and who had probably tugged on his hair and kissed him just like this. John had probably made that same soft little noise. 

Paul pulled away sharply, still sitting too close to John although they were separate again, and stared into John’s eyes. He was looking for something. And for once he knew what it was. 

He couldn’t be the guy from Stoke. This had to mean something to John.

“What’s wrong?” John asked. He looked beautiful, hair sticking up in odd places as a result of Paul’s hands and lips slightly shiny and swollen. 

Paul’s resolve crumbled a little, just enough: “Nothin’,” Paul said in what might have been the least convincing use of the word _nothing_ ever.

“That might have been the least convincin’ use of the word nothin’ ever,” said John.

Paul shook his head emphatically. “It’s nothin’,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

John cocked an eyebrow. A moment passed, John staring and Paul longing to lean back in and forget about the ache somewhere in his heart, telling him to take what he could and forget about the rest.

“It’s not nothin’,” John said, expression softening, and brushed his fingers over Paul’s jaw so lightly that Paul thought he might have imagined the touch. “Come on, I’ve been tellin’ you all this bullshit over the past couple of days. Tell me what’s wrong.”

 _And this is your chance._ He thought back to the last conversation about Stoke, how he had pushed John away with his words. Paul had lied, over and over again, and now was his chance to tell the truth; the truth sat deep in his stomach like a pebble in the toe of a boot, poking and grating at toes until it was unbearable and even then, it was inaccessible because of the design of the boot. Paul reckoned he was probably a solid pair of Doc Martens, given how difficult it was for him to reach that pebble.

But now he had his socks and shoes off and his feet exposed, and he could find that little pebble and drag it out from between his toes and let that sense of triumph wash over him.

The metaphor was getting a bit odd and Paul shelved it for later.

“In Stoke,” he began and watched John’s face disassemble and reassemble in the span of a second. “With that man.”

“Yeah. Rod.”

“Yes, yes, _Rod._ I was jus’ wonderin’, if, uhm.”

“If.”

“Yes, if.” Paul paused, sighing. “Hold on, I’m tryin’ my best here.”

“I’m a patient man,” said John. The corner of his mouth quirked up like he was unable to contain his amusement at the blatantly false statement. Paul had to close his eyes. He didn’t know how he’d make it through a lifetime without those lips, now that he knew how they felt against his own.

 _It had better be true,_ he thought, and immediately felt a pang of guilt. The audacity to ask for the truth after all the lies he had told.

“Like hell,” Paul said weakly. He tried to collect his thoughts and feelings, what he wanted to say and how, but it was like trying to ladle soup with a strainer. “I think I’ve got it.”

“Alright,” said John. His amusement was visibly twisting into worry.

“Well, you see, I was wonderin’...”

“Christ, Macca, out with it!” John snapped suddenly, and Paul shrank back.

“Alright, alright! Bloody impatient, you are…” Paul took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. “I was wonderin’ if you meant what you said. About… _y’know._ ”

“I mean this as kindly as possible, but when you say ‘y’know,’ I never know what in the hell you’re talkin’ about,” John said. His hands were resting on his lap as though he didn’t know what to do with them.

Paul turned his head so he could look away; out at the roaring ocean. He wished it could drown out his words and give him an excuse not to say any more.

“I’m tryin’ here,” he said. “When you said… we were talkin’ about him. Rod. Well, more like yellin’.”

“I remember.”

“And you said, er… you said that you slept with him ‘cause well, _y’know,_ ” Paul said hopelessly.

“Sweet fuckin’ Christ--”

“--okay, okay! ‘Cause he looked like me, right? An’ I wanted to know if that was, uhm, true.” Paul looked down at his lap, then glanced back up at John, who was wearing the same bemused expression as before.

“Yeah, of course,” John said. “And?”

Paul stared at him incredulously. “ _And?_ John, I’ve been thinkin’ about it nonstop since you fuckin’ said it!” His throat felt like it was closing up. 

Maybe he would suffocate. It would probably be a mercy killing, based on how this conversation was going.

His friend was staring at him and Paul was staring back. The crashing of waves was audible in the distance, and yet Paul could hear his heartbeat over it, racing in his chest.

Christ, he was so _nonchalant_ about it. _I should’ve known this would happen._

John broke eye contact, pursing his lips. “You’re the one that said you weren’t interested.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. I said I _couldn’t_ be,” Paul said miserably and began to chew on his thumbnail.

“Isn’t that the same damn thing?” John sounded exasperated but Paul couldn’t look at him. No, he _could,_ he was choosing not to. That was the truth.

“No, no it’s not,” Paul pointed out. “‘Cause I wouldn’t be interested if I wasn’t interested, right?”

A pause.

“That sentence didn’t make any bloody sense, but I reckon you just said you’re interested in me,” said John, and Paul thought he heard something in his tone of voice. A change, some spark of excitement. He hoped.

“Listen, I was strugglin’ a bit with this whole queer thing… I wasn’t gay _before._ ”

“I don’t think you’re gay,” said John.

“What?”

“You still like birds, right?”

“I like _you,_ ” Paul said, and _didn’t that feel good?_ He had said it, out loud, to John’s face. More or less, of course, because he wasn’t looking at John. But he had still managed to admit it. He had told the truth about the matter.

Paul felt like he could’ve run a marathon.

But then he noticed that John was oddly silent, and turned back around to find…

“You’re _blushin’,_ ” Paul said incredulously.

“Piss off,” John said, but the red tint to his cheeks didn’t lie. John scrubbed the sleeve of his sweater over his cheekbone as though that would remove the color. “But you still find birds attractive. You’re not gay,” he said in a pathetic attempt to distract Paul.

“I don’t think this is the primary issue right now.” Paul was on top of the world. No, he was on fucking Jupiter. Doing a fucking tap-dance with Frank fucking Sinatra and the queen mother.

“Okay, yeah,” John said. He was looking at Paul now, that same vulnerability on his face as when they had been preparing to ‘meet Alf.’ “You like me.”

“Pretty much.”

“Okay, wow. Wow. You like me,” John repeated.

“We’ve established that, love. We just kissed an’ everythin’, if you remember properly,” Paul said and bit his lip to keep from laughing. Confidence suddenly poured over him like rainwater. “I reckon you like me too, then?”

“Not the word I would use to describe it,” John said, tugging at his hair absently and staring at a spot somewhere on Paul’s chest.

_What._

“...beg pardon?” asked Paul, his voice cracking in a way it hadn’t since he was fourteen.

 _He can’t mean_ that.

John’s eyes suddenly got very wide and his cheeks got even redder, if that was possible. Paul thought it was a great look on him. Absolutely smashing.

He couldn’t help but grin when John covered his face with his hands in embarrassment.

“It’s jus’... you’re more than that, y’know?”

“I don’t know. You see, when you say _y’know,_ I never understand what you’re sayin’.”

He earned a half-hearted punch to the arm for that one, but it couldn’t wipe the smile off his face, especially when he got a glimpse of John. He looked like the world’s most indignant tomato.

“Well, I reckon people _like_ pop music an’ chocolate an’ footie games,” John muttered, as though trying to keep Paul from hearing. “But I don’t _like_ you. You’re my best mate, an’ you put up with all my crazy shite, an’… you’re the only one who really understands me.” 

John licked his lips and glanced between Paul and his lap. “You know who I am.” 

A beat. “So, I don’t like you, ‘cause it’s more than that. _Y’know,_ ” he said, bristling, and glared at something off to the left so that his face was turned away from Paul.

Paul stared at John’s flushed, turned cheek, and almost felt like he was going to cry. He wanted to say something back, to let John know how much and how deeply he cared for him. But God, it was so hard, wasn’t it? He couldn’t find the words to say what he meant. It was overwhelming and Paul didn’t want to scare John off (he was rather skittish, after all) and…

“I know,” Paul said and reached out to pull John’s face back to his. He couldn’t quite bring himself to care about anything outside of this moment, because it was true, and one day he could tell John the whole truth.

He tried to press love into every kiss so that his simple words would not be all.

\-------

“Come on, get up,” demanded Paul. He didn’t know when he had become the motivated one.

“It’s too early for this shite,” the vaguely John-shaped lump of blankets on the bed grumbled.

“It’s noon, innit? If we want to be in Stoke by dinner, you’ve got to get up.”

“Since when are we goin’ to Stoke?”

“Since I decided I’m sick of lyin’ in this goddamn bed,” Paul said, fingertips tapping against his thigh as he looked out the window. “I’ll drive the motorbike myself if I have to.”

He must’ve looked a bit green around the gills because John promptly said: “You would never. I’m sick of your complainin’. I feed you, I clothe you--”

“You don’t _clothe_ me. I wear my own clothes.”

“And what a shame that is,” John lamented, sitting up and out of the blankets and grinning. His hair stuck up in ridiculous tufts all over his head.

“Piss off,” Paul said despite the heat in his cheeks. “Up you get, get ready to go.”

“So bossy,” John murmured. “ At least give us a kiss first.”

“I’ll give you a kiss when you’ve brushed your teeth.”

John promptly got up and Paul wondered if he should’ve kissed John a long time ago, if that got him to move so fast in the mornings. It was only a few minutes before John reappeared, standing in the bathroom door in his t-shirt and jeans, frowning.

“So. I was thinkin’,” John said.

“First time for everythin’.”

“That’s my line!”

“Yeah, but I do it better,” Paul said. “Anyway, you were thinkin’.”

“I was. I was wonderin’ if maybe I should go an’ pay my respects or whatever before we left… since I didn’t go to his grave an’ all.”

Paul hesitated, thinking of Julia’s funeral and John’s reaction when they had first come here, and clammed up. “Well, it’s up to you. I don’t think you should do somethin’ you don’t want to.”

“I only _sort of_ want to, if that makes any sense.”

‘Yeah, yeah. I understand,” said Paul despite not understanding.

“It’s not an obligation so much as it feels like somethin’ I’ll feel guilty for later if I don’t do it. I don’t feel like I have to so much as I feel like it’s the proper thing to do.” John reached up and tugged a hand through his wild hair, which Paul thought he might like to do as well.

“It’s up to you,” Paul echoed.

John bit his lip and stared at something on the wall, looking as though he was trying to work out a particularly difficult math problem.

“Okay, then let’s go get some flowers to honor my old man.”

Paul went to get his shoes. The occasion suddenly felt quite solemn, like they were having their own private memorial service. It was promptly ruined when John grabbed hold of Paul’s wrist and spun him around to plant one on him.

He wiped his mouth and did his best to glare at John, despite the fact that he was grinning like a maniac. Paul didn’t think he would ever get used to such open affection. _Romantic_ affection. “Y’know, I can tell if you didn’t brush your teeth.”

“Y’know,” said John cheerfully. “I know nothin’.”

He led the way out the door.

Time seemed to fly by on Paul’s fourth trip to the graveyard, probably because he was familiar with the path now. As they approached the gate, John stopped dead in his tracks.

“I can’t do this.”

“Come on, Johnny,” Paul said, fear rising in his throat. You’re the one that wanted to do this in the first place.”

“I know, I know. It’s jus’... there are _people_ here.”

“Yeah, there are always people here. It’s kind of what happens when you bury bodies in the ground,” Paul said, and immediately regretted the bad joke. “Okay, John, relax for me. Take a deep breath. Yeah?” He wished he could reach out to John in the light of day, without anybody to judge them.

“I’m okay,” said John, despite wringing his hands and looking panicked.

“They’re not payin’ any mind to us. We can go right in and come right back out without havin’ to stop and talk to anybody, alright?” Paul placed his hand on the gate and pushed it open, and John’s eyes were wide but he followed Paul anyway. He brushed his fingers against the pulse of John’s wrist when he got the chance.

“Alright. Okay.”

“Let’s go in, yeah?”

“Yeah,” confirmed John.

They went straight to the grave and John hovered over the grave of his father, bouquet of white chrysanthemums leaned against the stone with a certain awkwardness. Like he didn’t know how to put flowers on a grave; which, of course, he did.

“It doesn’t look like I was expectin’.”

“No?” asked Paul, tracing the Bible verse with his eyes.

“No. I thought it would be smaller. An’ I didn’t think anybody would be keepin’ all the weeds an’ moss off it,” John said, his hand skidding over the widest part of the stone.

“Somebody’s watchin’ over his grave, at least.”

“Yeah, I’m sure…” John frowned, following Paul’s eyes to the words etched into the grave. I didn’t think he was religious, either.”

“That’s jus’ a thing people do. Slap Bible verses on every headstone with less than six words.”

“I don’t remember him goin’ to church or donatin’ or anythin’,” John said, but Paul privately thought that might not mean much in this context. Ten years could completely change a person.

There was a heavy, silent pause between the two of them, Paul wondering what John could possibly say next and the world seeming to hang on the edge of this.

“Can I have a moment alone, please? With… Alf,” said John, half-wincing.

“Of course,” Paul said and he was relieved. He wandered a few headstones away and glanced between the pale blue sky and John, knelt on the ground, both beautiful in different ways.

He was so fucking proud of him for doing this.

Even though Paul knew John was not religious either, he still thought he could pick up on the whispers of a prayer as his friend knelt and touched his dad’s headstone as though it was blessed. For all they knew, it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus, that was a rough one to write. Hopefully it's not quite so devastating as the last few... I feel like a farmer at the end of a hard day's (night's?) work, wiping my palms on my overalls and drinking a beer on the porch to wind down. I dunno. Whatever farmers do.
> 
> Thank you very much to everyone reading and commenting, I love the love! <3 Also a big thank you to mossintheconcrete, my lovely beta (not in the A/B/O way, fortunately). Feel free to talk to/harass/flirt with me at flightofthebluealiens on Tumblr... or just let me know what you think, that works too.


	10. Birmingham and Stoke, Or: On The Road Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trip is coming to a close but Paul feels like it could last forever if this is his new reality.

“I think I’d be alright with never comin’ back here,” John said as he revved the engine of the motorbike and pulled it out of the parking spot. “I could go the rest of my life an’ never have to see stupid bloody Felixstowe again.”

“ _What?_ ” shouted Paul over the roar of the engine.

“ _I said I don’t wanna come back--_ oh, never mind.”

The afternoon air was surprisingly warm, seeing them off with sunlight beating relentlessly down on Paul’s back, making him too hot in his hoodie. He wished he had put it in the duffel bag, but John didn’t like to stop once they had started driving, and it got colder once they were on the freeways. It was a good excuse to press his chest tighter against John’s back.

He wondered how he had ever thought this, whatever it was between them, was wrong. When John brushed his fingertips over Paul’s wrist as they walked down the street, when they got back to the room and John kissed him as though the time they had to spend in public had been agonizing… well, Paul had been holding out on himself.

This was a good excuse, though, because Paul could get away with holding John near if it was on the bike. He also wondered how he had ever been scared of the motorbike; watching the ground drop beneath them, it seemed as though he was built for it.

He’d even given John his helmet back.

Paul peeked over John’s shoulder and caught his eye in the rearview mirror. He caught that same delighted look on John’s face, the one he had seen the first time he had done this, back when they had first driven off to Lancaster carrying nothing but clothes and hope.

They were weather-beaten and the bags under their eyes were a little darker but that was still all they carried. Except Paul wasn’t hopeful; he was _grateful._ That John was making a face at him in the rearview mirror rather than lying in bed in Felixstowe and holding in all his anger and sadness and fear.

Earlier that day, Paul had been brushing his teeth, shoulder-to-shoulder with John in the tiny bathroom where they had showered together, and realized something.

Looking over at John, who was trying to light a cigarette with one hand and brush his teeth with the other, he noticed things he hadn’t noticed before. The shadows clinging to his skin where they shouldn’t, especially around his eyes. The way his jeans sagged a little more than before. And Paul thought about all the meals he had let John skip, how he had perceived letting John avoid eating as a mercy and not a failure.

He felt guilty, and then he reminded himself that it wasn’t his fault.

Paul had been equally out of sorts, trying to pick up John’s pieces without considering that he was leaving broken parts of himself behind with every one of John’s he salvaged. And now that he was supergluing himself back together… John would have to be patient with him.

He had spat out toothpaste into the sink and rinsed his mouth, waited for John even though he didn’t have to.

John had smiled fondly at him. Teased. “Birmingham, then?”

Paul had rolled his eyes in response, not willing to give John what he wanted, and leaned up to kiss the toothpaste stain on the corner of John’s mouth. “Wash your face, you’ve got toothpaste,” he had said, gesturing to his lips.

“I’m never washin’ my face again,” John had said earnestly.

He was beginning to realize that John was _always_ earnest when it came to romance and all that. John kissed him with reverence and tugged at his hair and wrapped his arm around Paul’s shoulders when they were sitting watching telly. He always asked to cuddle at night, even though Paul had said he had an open invitation.

It was a lot. Paul was still trying to wrap his head around all of it; not only the death but the new, undefined relationship. John didn’t make it easy: holding Paul’s hand under the table when they went out for breakfast, but distancing himself when they got back to the motel room. Squeezing Paul’s arm every-so-often on the ride to Birmingham but not saying a single word to him, even when they went to a rest stop for sandwiches.

He watched John’s thin face glow in the sunlight. The dark bags under his eyes dulled the electricity in them, and Paul knew exactly what he was feeling; that full-body exhaustion that pulled you toward beds like a magnet. He thought they understood each other even better than before, with these new layers to their relationship and this new shared experience.

They were not the same as before, and they probably never would be. But, and Paul was just starting to comprehend this, that was okay. They were them and they were still together and now that togetherness was a deeper, more intimate relationship. 

He wondered if John enjoyed it as much as he did.

They coasted straight through Peterborough and Northampton and what seemed like a million other cities and towns before they made it to Birmingham. John checked them into the same motel as last time and they had hardly made it into the room before John was climbing into bed.

Paul, who had been expecting a kiss at the very least, stood just inside the door and blinked blankly at John, who had shorn his shirt and was tucking himself in.

“Really?” Paul asked.

“I’m knackered,” John said, and Paul felt a twinge of sympathy for him.

It was only a twinge, though. He decided to unpack the record player.

His (read: George’s) Talking Heads record kicked in and John groaned from underneath the blankets, pulling them tighter around his ears.

Paul laughed and flopped backward onto the bed beside John. “The last time we were here, you threw a box of veggie sausage at me. Do I not get that kinda special treatment anymore?”

The shapeless mass of blankets on the bed, usually known as John, groaned again. “I’m not tryin’ to woo you anymore, so no.” His head popped up, curly hair already disheveled, and he grinned in a way that left Paul’s insides all tangled. “Now that you’re spoonin’ me an’ all. Set for life, I am.”

Paul pursed his lips, silently willing his cheeks to cool down. “You’re the one who invited me to spoon you. So don’t act like you don’t like it.”

“Well, of course I bloody like it. ‘S too bad you’re too hot to sleep with.”

“I thought you want to sleep with me _because_ I’m hot?” Paul grinned and turned so he could look up at John, who was suddenly sitting up, his face electric-red.

“You know that’s not what I meant! You jus’ have a lot of body heat, an’ a grip like a fuckin’ steel trap, so I can’t get away from you once you’ve latched on for the night,” John said. He was blathering on and on, wiping at his nose and cheeks as though he could remove the flush with a good scrub, and Paul wanted to kiss him. So he sat up and he did.

John immediately put his hand to the back of Paul’s neck but he pulled away anyway and peppered kisses over John’s cheekbones. They felt hot underneath his lips, and he couldn’t help but smile against the skin.

“Awww, John… you get so flustered when I flirt back. ‘S like you’re not expectin’ it.”

“You try havin’ _that_ face sweet-talkin’ you an’ see how it goes. No wonder the birds soak their fuckin’ panties at the sight,” he grumbled.

Paul laughed. “It’d be a bit odd if I had someone with my own face tryin’ to get in my pants.”

“So you admit you’re tryin’ to get in my pants,” John said smugly, crossing his arms over his chest and smirking.

“...okay, well… you see, the thing is, it’s really not…”

“Awww, ‘s like you’re not expectin’ it,” John said and the lopsided, cheeky grin he shot Paul’s direction made the embarrassment almost worth it.

“Piss off,” said Paul. “If I wanted to get in your pants, I’d already be in them. I’d be fuckin’ wearin’ ‘em.”

John looked at him as one looks at a small child asking for a pony for Christmas; a mixture of bewilderment, amusement, and affection. He laid back down and presented his open arms to Paul, who obediently crawled into them.

He nearly drifted off to sleep before he was rudely interrupted.

“Macca,” said John all of a sudden, voice raspy.

“What?”

“If you want my pants, you can jus’ ask.”

A beat. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you,” said Paul.

John laughed and it was a sweet sound. Or it would’ve been if Paul hadn’t been seconds away from falling asleep. “No, you won’t. Nobody to drive your lovely arse home.”

“So you admit my arse is lovely!” Paul exclaimed, sitting up straight as he remembered the women from London and the offhand comment John had made in the restaurant. _The plot thickens._

“Sweet Christ,” sighed John.

\------

Paul held up a brochure acquired from the receptionist, displaying a colorful selection of images of the University of Birmingham campus. “Come on, Johnny,” he wheedled, shaking the folded paper at John, who was folded up in the sheets in a similar manner.

John’s messy hair was the only visible part of him, the rest of his body hidden underneath the covers. “Come on, Paulie,” he mimicked, muffled, and shifted. “I jus’ want to sleep.”

Paul resisted the urge to pout because that would give John precisely what he wanted. “I jus’ want to go explore this beautiful city you’ve trapped us in,” he said.

Finally, John’s head surfaced, accompanied by a shit-eating grin. “We can do plenty of explorin’ in here, y’know,” he said.

Paul said primly, “That is no way to talk to your gentleman partner.”

In an excellent imitation of the girl from Lancaster, John simpered: “Hello there, mister!”

“‘Lo, little lady,” Paul said, smirking as John squinted at him.

“Piss off.”

“Hey, you started it!”

“An’ I’m gonna finish it,” John said threateningly, sitting up and shoving his glasses onto his face.

Paul raised his eyebrows. “Promise?”

“Has anybody ever told you that you’re a terrible flirt?” John asked.

“No,” said Paul, leaning in and fitting their mouths together. He mumbled against John’s lips, “They usually tell me I’m quite good at it.”

John snickered and Paul felt it, sighed fondly into the kiss. Wrapped his hands around John’s shoulders and climbed into his lap. Listened to his hum of approval when Paul licked into his mouth.

“You’re not bad,” John said when Paul leaned back to take a breath. “Could use improvement. I could give you some pointers if you’d like, Mac--”

Paul rolled his eyes and pushed John down on the bed until he was flat on his back. “Shuddup or you won’t be gettin’ any more kissin’,” he said. 

John nodded quickly, looking rather like a bobblehead, and Paul laughed as he leaned back in.

\------

On their last day in Birmingham, they had ice cream and walked around the Birmingham Botanical Gardens. John complained the entire time, as he was wont to do, but it was good-natured; much like the gardens.

Paul drank in John’s appearance, the warm glow of his skin and hair against the natural backdrop of the cedars and flowing red Japanese maples; the way he peered up at the afternoon sun and ruffled his hands through his own hair every so often. The way he turned to smile at Paul, even when Paul wasn’t looking back. How he smoothed out his t-shirt with the side of his hand and straightened out his jacket over it.

John bought him a milkshake before they went back to the hotel room and Paul thought Birmingham could be tolerable if he had John by his side.

And then he tried to find _Jeopardy!_ on the unfamiliar television channels and changed his mind again.

\------

They celebrated their return to Stoke-on-Trent with Chinese takeout.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Paul asked, “Will you answer my question now, love?” It was a bad idea to speak when he was also attempting to maneuver his chopsticks so that he might be able to get ahold of some of his takeout. It was proving to be a failed experiment, and John was watching him with amusement, casually picking up single grains of rice as though he had been doing it all his life.

“What question?”

“How did you realize you like men?”

“Well, it’s a long an’ pathetic story,” John said, sighing with a dramatic flair that could’ve gotten him the lead role in a school production of _Grease._

“All of them are when they’re about you,” Paul teased. “Go on, then.”

“So, there was this lad at the chippie when I was… fourteen? Yeah,” began John. “Shotton an’ I used to cut class an’ go down there for lunch. He was always workin’ the counter, an’ I don’t remember quite when it happened but he started to recognize me when I came in. So he would always strike up a conversation, an’ I liked him ‘cos he was real tall and always good for a laugh.”

John paused, poking a piece of rubbery chicken with one of his chopsticks. “But his girlfriend was there one day an’ I hid in the bathroom the whole time I was there. An’ then I realized that was jealous ‘cos I wanted to be his boyfriend. So, naturally, I never spoke to him again.”

“Naturally,” said Paul.

“I sat right next to him on the bus a couple of months ago and pretended I’d never met him before in my life.”

“Christ.”

John said, “Nope, only John. Although I can see how you’d mix the two up.”

Paul rolled his eyes and shoveled more rice into his mouth, using more hand than utensil. “You’re a disaster.”

“Yeah, an’ you think it’s very attractive, I know. What about you?”

He paused and remembered the exact moment he realized he liked men. The exact _person_ it had been, sitting across from him and shoveling chicken into his mouth.

“Well, you were asleep in Bath an’ droolin’ all over the carpet and I took one look at you an’ realized I wanted to kiss you, so I went to take a shower in the hopes of avoidin’ thinkin’ about it,” Paul said hurriedly.

A long and thoughtful pause, John’s face contorting like a corkscrew.

“I’m the first lad you’ve ever thought about like this?”

“...well, technically, yes. Not countin’ my unconscious desire for Jimmy Page,” said Paul.

“ _Jimmy Page?_ ” John asked incredulously.

“He was quite cute when he was twenty-five or so!” Paul defended.

“Ah, a taste for older men. I’m beginnin’ to notice a pattern here.”

Before he could stop himself, Paul muttered, “I’d watch your mouth about the older men. I can recall one of yours myself.”

The pause that followed was not a pleasant pause. It was long, angry and awkward, still heavy with an unresolved conflict that seemed to only be accentuated by the fact that they were back in Stoke. Paul reached out and put his hand on top of John’s.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said and meant it, from the ends of his hair to the ends of his toes.

“It’s fine,” muttered John. He peered down into his takeout box with pointed interest.

“No, it’s really not. It’s unfair to you that I was takin’ out my issues on you… an’ I was jealous, so that didn’t make it much better.”

“You were _jealous?_ ”

“Of course?”

John corkscrew-frowned again, but there was a hint of delight on his face. “I jus’... jus’ never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“Well, I never thought I’d hear you say you were sleepin’ with some forty-year-old ‘cos he looked like me, but here we are.”

John disregarded that and leaned in to press his lips gently to Paul’s cheek. “I was jealous of that girl in Lancaster. I wanted to push her away every time she touched your arm. An’ I hate all those birds you go out with.”

“You go out with girls,” Paul pointed out, smiling even though he didn’t want to. John could admit to being jealous of an inconsequential pack of birds but couldn’t say the word _love_ in a speech about how he liked Paul oh-so-much.

“Yeah, but it’s not how _you_ go out with girls. They’re practically makin’ the eyes at you from the moment you show up.” John’s frown reappeared and Paul smiled even wider. He was practically pouting over the idea of girls making sexy eye contact with Paul.

“You _are_ aware that you do that too, right?”

“It’s endearin’ when I do it,” John said. “Makes me go mad when it’s them.”

“It’s not like I’m goin’ to go with birds anymore anyway,” Paul said, and John bit his lower lip as though trying to hold back a smile himself.

“Soundin’ like our George after his last school dance.”

“I forgot about that!” Paul exclaimed.

“What was it he said? _I don’t need any birds, I’ve got me best mates an’..._ ”

“ _Great fuckin’ hair,_ ” Paul concluded. “Somebody spiked the punch.”

“He was so goddamn drunk. I don’t reckon I’ve ever seen him that drunk,” John said, looking at nothing and sighing as though it was the best memory he’d ever had.

“I don’t reckon he’s ever _been_ that drunk. We didn’t start drinkin’ until last year or so.”

“Late start, then. I started at thirteen,” John admitted.

“Cor. _An’_ you started smokin’ at twelve. D’you ever regret that?”

John said, “Sometimes. Mostly ‘cos I didn’t learn how to deal with my emotions, jus’ drank.” He shoveled more rice into his mouth, clearly not wanting to talk further about it. However, Paul was a relatively pushy person.

“You and every other Liverpudlian.”

“Yeah, but I’d bet it was worse for me ‘cos I was stuck with Mimi and the whole rest of my family was gone or dead. Uncle George, my parents, y’know. So I drank a whole bunch of beer rather than acknowledge those issues.”

Paul paused before responding, looking over at John, who was hunched over his takeout container as though trying to plant his face in it.

They were sitting and eating dinner in daylight, not drunk, not lying together in bed, nobody was crying. And yet John was saying how he felt. Paul felt a swell of pride in the core of his chest.

“An’ you’re ready to acknowledge them now?”

John shrugged indifferently. “I’ve done an arseload of acknowledging over the past few days. I think I’d rather talk about your crush on Jimmy Page.”

“It’s not a crush! I thought he was good-lookin’, that’s all.” Paul laughed.

“Like how I thought Morrissey was good-lookin’. An’ Elvis. An’ Joni Mitchell.”

“One of these things is not like the others,” Paul said, almost in a sing-song.

John grinned and rapped his knuckles against one of Paul’s knees. “Yeah, Elvis had better eyelashes.”

“You jus’ like him ‘cos he looked like me.”

“I jus’ like you ‘cos you look like Elvis.”

“No, I don’t. Hair’s too flat.”

“You could fix it up.” John reached up to paw at Paul’s hair, running his long fingers through the thick fringe at the front.

“Are you tellin’ me to try an’ look like Elvis?” he teased, leaning embarrassingly far into the touch.

A smile tugged at the corner of John’s mouth. Paul wanted to kiss it. “No. Of course not. I like you jus’ the way you are.”

“Thanks, mum. Maybe now we can paint each other’s nails and listen to my Cyndi Lauper ‘Greatest Hits’ CD.”

“I mean it. You’re beautiful,” said John, and Paul felt some sensitive organ inside him explode.

“You’re jus’ sayin’ that ‘cos I pass for your celebrity crush,” he protested weakly.

“You’re gorgeous, Macca,” cooed John. _Hopefully, it’s just my appendix, and I still have my stomach and lungs intact._

“Okay, you can shut up now.”

“So beautiful,” said John, running his fingertips over Paul’s arm and bringing up goosebumps.

Paul rolled his eyes to hide his obvious mushiness. “Tellin’ lies is bad for the soul.”

“Well, you don’t know, you haven’t got one. Otherwise, you would’ve let me go to that fourth art museum.”

“Wild, false accusations,” said Paul. “I had to take a piss.”

“You had to take a piss in the motel room, a million blocks away, an’ then you fell asleep so I couldn’t even go get somethin’ to eat.”

“Sorry about that,” Paul said and reached down to squeeze John’s hand where it rested on his knee.

“It’s alright. You have such a pretty face when you’re sleepin’.” The smug grin on John’s face was both incredibly adorable and incredibly infuriating at the same time; particularly infuriating since Paul thought he was mere seconds from spontaneous human combustion.

“It’s not pretty all the time?” he asked hoarsely.

“Don’t push your luck.”

\------

Mimi answered on the first ring.

“We’ll be back in three days,” Paul told her. “He’s doin’ pretty well. Movin’ about and eatin’ and all that. We’re in Birmingham.”

She paused for a moment and Paul listened to her breathing over the phone, thinking of John back in the room and wondering how somebody so talkative could’ve been raised by this woman. “Okay,” she finally said. _Thank you, Mimi, for that satisfactory and long-anticipated response._ “And you’re sure he’s physically well?”

“Yeah, pretty sure,” Paul said and attempted to steer his thoughts away from how exactly he had gotten the dark stain on his collarbone that morning.

“None of this ‘not eating’ business?”

“ _No,_ Mimi.”

“Good,” said Mimi, and there was more silence. She seemed to be working herself up to telling him something. Paul considered hanging up on her. _No,_ he did not deliberate it for over a minute.

“Paul, I just wanted to let you know… I’m very grateful for all that you have done for John,” Mimi said, and there was a hitch in her breathing; the only suggestion that she might not be as composed as she seemed. Paul remembered the airtight clasping of her fingers at Julia’s funeral, the way her face had pinched, and felt an unexpected sympathy for the woman. After all, this was John’s aunt; the woman who had raised him when Julia was incapable. She had stood strong for John when her husband had died, her sister. She would do the same when John returned home with news of his father’s death.

Paul realized that he had been unfair to her. Mimi did what she had to do. Created order and sturdiness in a life full of instability, even if it meant being detached. That detachment devastated John and Paul resented Mimi for it, but he could understand now.

“You too,” he said, chest feeling tight. “He would’ve been even more of a mess without you in his life.”

Mimi huffed out what might have been a laugh had anybody but Paul said it.

“Thank you for calling,” she said, and he managed to pick up on the hint. John would have been shocked had he been in the telephone booth beside Paul.

“Of course,” Paul said. “Have a good day, Mimi.”

“You too, Paul.”

Jim was next, and he too answered on the first ring. Paul wondered if the parents were sitting by their phones now that he and John had been gone nearly a month.

“Hey, Da, it’s Paul.”

“I figured. How is it goin’? Will you be home soon?”

“Couple of days, I reckon,” Paul said. “Three or so.”

Jim sighed in what must have been relief. Paul liked to imagine that his da would refrain from sighing in annoyance at the idea of his return home. “That’s good, Paul. An’ how’s John?”

The outline of John’s face in the pale morning light, messy hair sticking up in all directions. Giggling and sighing into Paul’s mouth when they kissed. Cursing violently when he couldn’t find his copy of _The Hobbit,_ only to launch himself at Paul when he produced it from the other duffel.

“He’s alright. Not ready to come home, I don’t think.”

“What about you?”

Paul paused and thought on it. He missed home in the way that a college kid misses home; that dull, vague ache of being on your own for the first time combined with the realization that you’re not quite as prepared for that alone-ness as you thought as a teenager. But he also savoured this little bit of freedom. He had not forgotten the many forced weekend trips to the grocer’s with his da and the shopping mall with Mike, or the endless routine of the job at the hardware store.

“Yes an’ no,” he admitted. “I miss you an’ Mike, plus I haven’t gotten to talk to George much.”

“He came ‘round the other day askin’ after you,” Jim said absently, as though flipping through the newspaper or making tea while he spoke. “Didn’t seem to realize you weren’t home yet.”

Paul felt a twinge of guilt and reminded himself to call George afterward. “I’ll call him when I get the chance,” Paul said, and Jim hummed in response.

They stayed on the phone a while longer, asking questions back and forth. _How’s Mike doing? Did he go out with that girl?_ No, she stood him up, but he went out with one of her friends instead. What did you think of Felixstowe? _Cold and wet. Is it the same in Liddypool?_ Is it ever different?

Paul was reluctant to hang up but as soon as he had, he called George.

Who didn’t answer until the seventh ring. _Nice change of pace._

“Hello, Paul,” George said with the smug confidence of somebody who knows exactly who’s on the other end of the line.

“Did Da tell you I was callin’?”

“No,” said George. “I’m just a genius, like.”

“A fortune teller, if you will.”

“Quite. Some might call me a psychic.”

“Perhaps you could have a career in reading tarot.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go _that_ far.”

Paul grinned into the phone and admitted: “I missed you, Haz. Sorry I didn’t call.”

He could picture George waving his hand dismissively, shrugging one shoulder like _what can you do?_ “It’s alright. I knew what was goin’ on. How’s our John?”

“My John, I reckon,” Paul said, biting his lip to try and restrain his grin.

George’s delight was clear in his tone of voice, brighter and louder than before. “I take it you told him?”

“Well, he kissed me, an’ then I told him ‘cos he wouldn’t say anythin’ about why he did it.”

“Bloody idiot,” said George. “Also, gross.”

“Gross?” Paul’s heart sank.

“You jus’ forced me to imagine kissin’ John an’, frankly, I feel sorry for you.”

Relieved, Paul assumed a tone of mock-seriousness, going so far as to wave his pointer finger at the side of the telephone booth. The glass wall had the decency to look ashamed. “Now, you best keep your mind-mitts off John,” he said. “He’s, er, mine to mind-kiss.”

George made a noise like that of a garbage disposal and Paul cackled.

“You won’t hafta worry about that. Probably never brushes his teeth.”

“Oi, I’m gonna tell him you said that,” responded Paul, “but you’re right. He requires a bit of proddin’.”

George said, “I hope ‘prodding’ isn’t some sort of weird queer slang term.”

“I’m goin’ to hang up on you.”

But he didn’t. Paul talked to George for nearly an hour, and by the time they were done, his pockets were empty of change and he had borrowed another couple of coins from passerby. He needed to get back home if they were to talk like that every time.

But he didn’t want to go back home quite yet. Instead, he sped back down the street to the motel room, busting into the bathroom and nearly scaring the shit out of John, who was messing about with a hair straightener.

“Christ, give us some warnin’ first,” John managed to say before Paul had thrown himself into his arms.

“I missed you,” Paul said cheerfully, snuffling at the junction where John’s ear and neck met. It smelled like hair products and cigarettes and sweat.

“You were only gone for an hour,” John said, but welcomed Paul into his arms nonetheless; he planted both of his palms on Paul’s lower back and allowed him to press a soft kiss to his ear.

“So you didn’t miss me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

They had to leave the next day and John was determined to soak up as much of the city as possible, as was made clear by the folded-up piece of paper he pulled out of his jean pocket.

“Okay, so here’s the itinerary for today--”

“Ooo, an itinerary,” said Paul, running his fingers through his hair and making a face in the mirror. “Are you goin’ to cross things off the list with a fancy little pen?”

“Shuddup or I’ll be leavin’ you here,” said John, an obviously empty threat so Paul didn’t pay much mind to it. “There’s three art museums within walkin’ distance. One of them isn’t pottery, so that’s the priority. An’ I found a record store that carries that Morrissey poster I’ve been wantin’.”

Paul was privately suspicious of why John was buying a huge poster of Morrissey’s face, but he figured it was a question he could ask another time, like when the author wasn’t writing about it.

John continued, “There’s a thrift store down the block. I wanna get George somethin’ to match that stupid hat you’ve gotten him.” Paul recalled the DEVO-esque yellow hat, shoved into a corner of his duffel bag, and smirked to himself when he imagined the horrified look on George’s face. 

Perhaps they could get him a three-piece suit. Perhaps it could have feathers.

“Alright, let’s go then,” he said, already one foot out the bathroom door.

“But that’s second-to-last on the list!” John protested.

“Oh God, you’ve finally lost it. Mimi would be so proud… what’s last on the list, then?”

John paused and squinted exaggeratedly down at the note, which Paul knew was unnecessary based on the fact that he was wearing his glasses. “Ah, yes, right here… convince dear Paul to give us a kiss.”

“I’ll let you know what Deer Paul says,” said Paul. “Human Paul’s not interested.”

“You’re human? Could’ve fooled me, with those pretty doe eyes.” John batted his eyelashes and puckered his lips exaggeratedly, leaning in.

“Nobody says the phrase ‘doe eyes’ except romance writers,” said Paul, and closed the distance between them. He didn’t think he would ever get tired of kissing John; John certainly didn’t seem to get tired of asking for ( _demanding_ ) kisses. The clear delight of getting attention seemed to flood through him, putting an unfamiliar bounce in his step, an easiness to his smile.

“Arsehole,” responded John, belated but with a shiny happy look on his face. “C’mon.”

“Only ‘cos you asked so politely,” Paul said, thinking _you could probably call me a bastard and slap me across the face and I would go with you._

And so they went.

John dragged Paul all over town and Paul quickly remembered why he had wanted to leave: Stoke-on-Trent was a collection of nothingness, merely scraggly ex-hippies and college students (scraggly _current_ hippies), pottery studios and parks. But John seemed to love it, head held high and looking over every so often to shoot Paul a grin, which almost made the excursion to nowhere worth the trouble. Sure enough, the record store had the poster of Morrissey-- and not much else; they visited all the museums and Paul’s brain felt numb by the time they escaped the exhibit on pre-colonial African artwork.

They bought George a yellow sequined vest that reminded Paul of Big Bird.

And by the time they got back to the room, it was nine o’clock at night and Paul was beginning to understand why exactly fifty-year-old women might enjoy a foot massage at the end of the day.

John peeled off his socks and shoes and flopped onto the bed as though they hadn’t just spent the overwhelming majority of the day in a standing position. “Oi, make sure you take off your shoes before you come up here,” he said, as though Paul was a regular offender of this rule. “Bloody white sheets.”

“I don’t think I _can_ take off my shoes. My feet have swollen to the size of your head.”

“Pretty big, then. I hope it’s ‘cos of my brain.” John laughed, tucking his face into a pillow.

“There’s nothin’ between those ears and we both know it,” Paul said. “Now come help me take ‘em off.”

“So demandin’.” John got up and did it anyway, squatting down on the ground to untie the laces of Paul’s trainers.

Looking down at John, Paul couldn’t help but reflect on when they had first set out on the great motorbike chase of 1992… when they had first been in Stoke. So much time spent wondering whether there was something wrong with him. Staring at lesbians eating at a bistro and feeling some sort of identification with their secret affections, feeling repulsive and unworthy of love for even thinking in that way. Thinking that he could hide away this part of himself, for better or worse, in exchange for the continued love of his friends and family. The _acceptance._

But he had told George the truth and George had laughed and said _can I be the best man?_

He could picture sitting Mike and Jim down after dinner and telling them. _I’m like Bowie, y’know. An’ I’m in love with John._ It was a comfort to know that they’d probably be more upset about his choice of John than his choice of men in general. Well, Mike wouldn’t be upset… he thought John was fab. But Jim’s moustache would probably turn instantly white and fall out of his head.

 _I might not care,_ he realized, watching John stand up and tilt his head quizzically at Paul. He loved Jim and Mike and George, wanted their love and protection and their opinions on everything, even when Mike was saying he preferred the old Mario games and George was muttering passive-aggressively about using his thumb when fingerpicking on guitar.

But his love for John was not the same. He was _in love with_ John, as he had just now realized, and that love was a very different kind of love; something that seemed like the river in comparison to the lake for his family. His love for John ebbed and flowed and rushed downstream, unstoppable against most barriers and easily able to sweep him away; his love for his family appeared still and stagnant but was fathomless, the bottom unreachable no matter how deeply he swam.

Paul reached out and pressed his fingertips to John’s jaw, smiling despite himself. Only two weeks ago and he would’ve thought this level of self-acceptance was impossible for him, and yet here he was, standing in front of the man that he loved and admitting that he loved him.

“What is it?” asked John softly, folding his palm over Paul’s fingers.

“Oh, nothin’.” _Everything. It’s you, of course._

“Then stop lookin’ at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re gonna cry,” said John, frowning deeply. There were exactly three wrinkles between his eyebrows and Paul wanted to kiss each because _I love him._

It was a good feeling, to love.

“It’s ‘cos of my feet,” he said.

John replied, “Cry me a river and use your disgustin’ fuckin’ shoes as boats.”

Paul couldn’t help but laugh, despite the heaviness of the sudden realization, weighing him down in both a positive and a negative way. “You are _such_ an arse!”

“It’s my charm,” John said, grinning in that lopsided way that made Paul’s heart ache.

“You’re the opposite of charmin’.”

“Well, I charmed you, didn’t I?”

“More like you slowly weaseled your way into my heart an’ I can’t quite figure out where to put the mousetraps to get rid of you.”

“Weasels can’t get caught in mouse traps,” John said smugly, wrapping one hand around Paul’s waist and tugging on his belt loop.

“Good thing I’ve decided not to snap your neck,” Paul responded.

“Gee Paulie, thanks! Wow!” John was doing his best wide-eyed, American accent, and Paul made a face at him in response. _Don’t encourage him._

“Arsehole.”

“Yeah, but you like me anyway.”

_It is so much more than that._

\------

They were in bed late at night when he asked, John’s fingers trailing across the jutting bones of his ribcage. He had taken to doing that, murmuring things about _too skinny_ and _I’m gonna make Mimi make you a proper sandwich._ Paul didn’t pay much attention, focusing instead on the gentle curve of John’s spine, and the soft baby fat settled around his waist. He liked to rub his hands over John’s waist but he had quickly realized that the other lad got self-conscious about that little bit of extra weight.

Paul wanted to tell John it was gorgeous on him; that he _would actually prefer if you never put your shirt on, it’s just unfair,_ but until he figured out a sensitive way to say that he would simply rub his hands over it until John shrunk away from the touch.

Anyway. They were in bed when he asked.

“Why did you bring me, an’ not Stu or the like?”

John thought about it for a moment, moving his hips away from Paul until he readjusted his hands to settle lightly on John’s ribcage.

He wasn’t ticklish like Paul was, but he shivered nonetheless when Paul traced his ribs with a single finger like they were piano keys.

“Well, I s’ppose you’re the one who goes with me,” John said.

 _I always go with you,_ Paul thought and nodded against the top of John’s head. But it was more than simply going with him because George would have gone, and so would Stu and even the Petes-- both Best and Shotton. It was that Paul _went with_ him. Understood and knew what to do, loved him in a way none of the others ever could. They were partners in every way, not just songwriters, not just romantically.

_I changed my mind. I want to go._

_Well, come on then._

But that wasn’t the real question he wanted to ask.

Paul’s hand trailed around to John’s back and ran up and down his spine, felt the separate vertebrae beneath his touch. John sighed and arched his back like a cat.

 _It could ruin everything,_ Paul reminded himself. _Everything you’ve built here. It could scare him away._ And yet Paul wanted to ask anyway. Because he wasn’t scared anymore; not of his feelings for John, not of what might happen if he asked. Even the stuttered question of _did you mean it when you said you were thinking of me?_ on the beach now seemed far away, lost to a Paul who hid from his feelings and couldn’t look at John when their hands touched.

They were just not the same anymore. Paul knew he wasn’t, at least. He was brave and honest and unashamed of describing himself as such; he was teaching himself to be a different person as well as learning more about who exactly he had once been.

So Paul moved away from John, just enough to look him in the eyes, and asked: “Are you in love with me?”

There was a long moment of silence, John’s mouth dropping open but no response coming out. But he didn’t break eye contact, and Paul didn’t either. By the time John said something, it had been long enough that Paul _was_ starting to get scared, wondering if he had overstepped or laid his cards out too soon or one of the million other things that could scare John away.

“It took you this long to figure that out?” John asked.

It was Paul’s turn to look dumbfounded, and John finally averted his eyes, blushing hard enough that Paul wondered if he was getting proper oxygen. 

_It took you this long to figure that out?_

That meant _yes._

Paul grinned wide enough that his face looked as though it was splitting in half, and John glanced back up at him, expression softening.

“What?” John asked, as though he thought a smile could mean _damn, that’s unfortunate because I don’t feel the slightest bit of affection for you._

“I love you,” Paul said and rolled on top of John, pinned him down, and began to pepper his face with kisses.

John made a sound suspiciously like a squeal. Tried unsuccessfully to push Paul off him. “Get off me! Macca-- you daft bastard, get _off_ me!”

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Paul repeated, murmuring the words against John’s forehead and sighing with the relief of admitting it out loud. John’s face was hot underneath Paul’s lips and Paul didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop smiling. “D’you know how long I’ve been waitin’ to say this? I love you!”

“Hold on a moment,” John said, stopping his helpless writhing for a moment. “ _You’ve_ been waitin’ a long time?”

“Forever and ever,” Paul said as he pressed his lips against John’s nose, completely missing the indignation in his tone.

“You have _not!_ ” John exclaimed. “You probably didn’t even realize you fancied me until this trip.”

A pause.

“...okay, so?” Paul sat up, looking down at John and crossing his arms over his chest. “Doesn’t matter, considerin’ I’ve loved you this whole time an’ not realized it.”

John shook his head incredulously, which was a strange contrast to his flushed face and blown pupils. “I’ve loved you this whole time _an’_ realized it, so don’t say you’ve waited forever.” He paused, looking bashful. “I’ve been the one waitin’ forever.”

 _Oh, John._ Paul, overwhelmed, suddenly found himself tearing up. He pressed a hand to his mouth and looked down at John through blurry eyes. How could he have missed out on this for so long? How could he have turned a blind eye to all of the hints, implications and undertones? And simply because he was afraid of being a queer.

“What’s wrong?” John sat up without warning, nearly managing to dislodge Paul from his lap, but grabbing hold of Paul’s hips to keep him from falling. Paul wrapped his arms around John and sobbed.

“Please, darlin’, tell me what’s wrong,” John said softly, craning his neck to see Paul’s face. “I can’t help you if you don’t let me know what’s happened.”

It was an odd echo of their conversation in Felixstowe.

“I-- I jus’-- I love you so much, an’ I’m sorry I didn’t figure it out sooner,” Paul blubbered.

John stared up at him for a moment and then shook his head again. “Oh, Paul,” he said softly, reaching up to cup Paul’s cheeks and wipe away his tears. “Sweetheart, I’m lucky you even love me at all. Don’t go cryin’ on me now ‘cos you _didn’t figure it out sooner._ ”

“Well, ‘s too bloody late for that, so you’re jus’ gonna have to deal with it, innit?” he muttered around a hiccup.

John laughed and it was the best thing Paul had ever heard. Better than _London Calling,_ better than the last bell of the school day, better than the sound of Mike opening and closing the pantry door to actually put away his peanut butter. And isn’t the laugh of the one you love always the best thing you’ve ever heard?

“I love you too, by the way,” said John.

No, _that_ was the best thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm real proud of this one... hopefully the quality is the same as we're winding down for the end. Sorry it's a bit late!
> 
> Thank you all for reading and for your lovely comments. And an extra-special super sexy thank you to mossintheconcrete for beta-ing this mess.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr at flightofthebluealiens if you want to chat, offer writing advice, or ask questions. (Such as: why would you write this? how could you release this to the world? do you know what you've done?)


	11. Liverpool the Second, Or: Redamancy

Morning came on slowly and Paul woke with the sun, stretching his arms out over his head and yawning magnificently. It was July 31st, 1992. It was the day they were set to go home.

John was already awake, sitting up against the headboard with a book in one hand, his free hand resting in Paul’s hair as though he had been petting him in his sleep. He looked down at Paul when he stirred and shot him a warm smile that sent shivers down his spine.

_I don’t want to go home,_ thought Paul, _not when I’ll wake up alone every morning. Not when I’ll have to pretend I’m not in love._ He wondered if John would still take girls out to keep up appearances. If Paul would do the same. How Mimi and Jim would react if they ever found out.

It seemed that their relationship could only exist in the vacuum of this trip. Paul didn’t want this, and yet could not imagine a future in which they could wake up in bed together; could not imagine a time in which they could have something like with Lydia from Lancaster.

“I wish we didn’t have to go home,” Paul said, voice hoarse with sleep.

John pushed his glasses up and looked down at him. “I know,” he said. “But we can still be together at home.”

Paul frowned. “I wish this trip wasn’t over.”

“There’ll be other trips, Macca.”

“You don’t understand,” said Paul miserably. “We can’t be together in Liverpool.”

That finally gave John pause. Paul looked up at him and found that John was merely staring at him, looking somewhere between horrified and angry and maybe even wretched. 

“Is this somethin’ you’ve convinced yourself needs to happen,” he asked slowly, “or is this your way of tellin’ me you’ve changed your mind about us?”

“No,” Paul said, hurrying to get his words out as though trying to directly contradict John’s calculated, careful speech. “No, no. It’s jus’... well, it’s jus’ that I figured this wasn’t a permanent thing. ‘Cos, y’know, you were goin’ out with a couple of birds back home. An’ it’s not like you can go out with _me,_ I’m a lad…”

“I told you I love you last night,” John said. “Are you that fuckin’ dense?”

Paul winced away from the words, shaking his head despite himself. “No. Sorry.”

John’s face softened and he brought his hand forward to brush Paul’s hair from his eyes. “M’sorry. What’s got you all worked up about this?”

Paul shrugged, sitting up in bed and bringing his hand to his mouth as he started chewing a fingernail. “My da. It’s jus’ that I don’t know how he would react, y’know? He already doesn’t like you much, and I have no idea what he thinks about queers.”

“Don’t call yourself that, and don’t be so nervous,” said John, tugging Paul’s hand away from his mouth.

“‘M not nervous.”

“Yeah, you are. You always bite your nails when you’re nervous.”

Paul sighed. “Okay, fine. Say I’m nervous, I don’t care. I don’t know how to tell my da what’s happenin’ between us. I feel like you can read it all over my face.”

John said, “If I could read it on your face I would spend a lot less time readin’ this book.”

He laughed as though nothing was eating at him. As though he could imagine facing his da having done what he had. Sitting at the kitchen table and picking his way through a pie when he had felt the shape of John’s hips underneath his hands.

When he had spent an entire month with his best mate, having both the best and worst times of his life, how was he supposed to return to normalcy? How was he supposed to study with George at the library after school, dodge his lab partner Katie’s ongoing advances, compliment Mimi’s cooking as though he had not held her nephew for nights in a row?

He came back to the real world when John reached out and tilted his chin up so that they were forced to make eye contact.

“Did you hear me?” he asked. “You don’t have to tell him anythin’. It’ll all be jus’ fine.”

Paul nodded dismally.

“An’ I bet we can go to Paris soon if you still want that. If we start savin’ now,” added John.

His mood improved in record time. “ _We?_ You’re not treatin’ me again?”

“You’re to pull your weight in this relationship,” John said sternly, looking rather like Mimi when he pointed a finger at Paul. “I’ve already driven you all over hell an’ gone.”

“Well, I suppose you can drive me to Paris then.”

John’s face paled. “Can you imagine the cost of petrol? I would have to win the bloody lottery.”

“Give it a go. We already know you’re lucky, seein’ how you ended up with me.”

“I suppose bad luck is still technically luck.”

Paul shoved him and they both laughed as John wrapped his arm around Paul’s shoulders, pulling him near, taking away any possibility of truth to his words. Paul settled in the crook of his arm as though he had been made to fit there and let out a satisfied sigh.

Everything would be alright in the end.

Hours passed and they packed. It felt as though they were moving; even though they had never stayed in one hotel room-- barring Felixstowe --for more than three days, it seemed that this one had become home. This one was where they had admitted their love for each other. Where Paul had apologized for the first visit to Stoke and John had accepted it and they had erased it with that love of theirs.

But it wasn’t home because there were no begonias and lilies planted outside in the flower beds, toiled over endlessly by Jim, who could make anything grow. There were no dirty socks left on the stairs by Mike after football practice. George’s jackets and records and pencils weren’t stacked on the rarely-used desk chair, where they had been forgotten over the years. Paul didn’t have a pack of cigarettes hidden in his pillowcase for when John came over.

Stoke-on-Trent was the place where they had admitted their love, but Liverpool was the place where they had fallen in love, and so they needed to go home. Paul knew it and hated it.

_Come on, let’s be selfish,_ he thought as he watched John wrap the cord around his hair straightener and shove it haphazardly into his bag. _Let’s stay here forever, just like you said._

“Ready?” asked John.

“Ready,” said Paul. _I don’t think I’ll ever be ready._

John leaned forward and kissed his cheek, just once, before he led the way out onto the street.

It was the same street that they had stayed on before, only they had stayed at the opposite end. John was still enamored with it. The college students and the art museums and the ruckus, endless ruckus, schoolboys running about and waiters tending bistros and… _wait._

Bistros.

The one nearest them sat directly across the street from the motorbike, and he recognized the fancy, curly black font of the sign, the tiny tables, the smell of baking bread wafting out the front door. He recognized the two women sitting at the table outside in the corner most of all.

The brunette, who seemed to have even more freckles than the last time he had seen her, was eating an egg sandwich. He watched with delight as her dainty, hairless girlfriend reached up with a napkin to wipe away egg from her face.

He knew the loving gesture and knew the smile the brunette shot the other woman back. Hadn’t he done that for John before? Hadn’t he smiled at him like that?

Paul beamed to himself and climbed onto the bike behind John. 

He remembered the way his heart had ached at the kiss between the girls; the way he had somehow instantly identified with them.

Instead of something foreign and terrifying squeezing at his heart, demanding he admit his feelings, he felt John squeeze his hand. And he squeezed back without a second thought.

\------

The house seemed to loom above his head in a way it never had before, the sun already high in the sky and creating a bright backdrop to the brick two-story. Jim’s garden looked healthy, and sure enough, there were begonias. Paul looked at the immaculate flower beds and gulped.

His heart suddenly seemed to be going much faster than before. John had to be wrong. It felt like a brand on his skin; like the words he had spoken to him last night could be read on his face, seen through his twitching hands and the way he leaned into John’s side when he stumbled off the motorbike. His legs were asleep and he hardly felt the pins-and-needles when all he could think about was whether he looked guilty or not.

And then it didn’t matter because the front door opened with a bang and Jim ran, actually _ran_ across the lawn, and his arms wrapped around Paul as though he had thought he was never coming home.

_He probably did think that, at first,_ Paul realized, and felt a twinge of guilt as he reciprocated the embrace. It had been a long time since he had hugged his father. Probably since his mother’s death or even before. He had never felt Jim was willing.

“Paul,” his father murmured into the top of his head, “I’m glad you’re home.”

That marked the prompt end of the hug and his da took a step back, clearing his throat and looking embarrassed. Paul, although shocked, couldn’t help but smile.

“I’m glad to be home, Da,” he said.

He would try not to long too desperately for Paris.

“How are you? Got all your fingers an’ toes? This one wasn’t havin’ you sleep out in the cold?” asked Jim, squinting suspiciously at John.

John looked mildly offended and Paul chuckled. “No, we were stayin’ in motels the whole time. No freezin’ of toes.”

Jim directed his stern-- and fond --gaze on John, a strange sight to Paul’s eyes. “What about you, son?” He paused. “I heard about your father. Sorry about all that.”

Surprise flitted across John’s expression for only a moment before he smiled politely and gave one of those single nods, the kind that says _I acknowledge what you just said but I don’t want to be acknowledging it,_ which is most commonly used when a teacher you hate compliments your work. “Thank you, sir,” he said, and Paul wondered if he had ever heard John call anybody ‘sir.’

Jim looked at him for a moment, his expression indecipherable, and then stuck his hand out to John. This may as well have been a slap across the face given the shock it caused both John and Paul (and possibly Jim as well). “Thank you for takin’ care of my boy,” he said quietly, as though intended only for John’s ears and not his own son’s.

“Of… of course,” said John, stumbling over his own words as Paul had stumbled over his feet getting off the bike. “Although he was the one who took care of me.”

“He’s good at that. Very good at takin’ care of his family,” Jim said, beaming. The corner of Paul’s mouth turned up uncontrollably, not from gratefulness so much as it was from finding humor at the thought of John being an equivalent to one of his cousins, or, _God forbid,_ Mike.

“Oh yes,” said John, his expression matching Paul’s. “He is that.”

“Well. You’d best be goin’,” said Jim, not one for hints or small talk. Paul felt panicked all of a sudden, aching at the idea John would not be there with him; if an entire month was not enough time together then a night apart would surely kill him.

“Well, I suppose,” John said and reached out to clap Paul’s shoulder, the most affectionate thing they could probably do in front of Jim without any suspicion. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Macca, yeah? Thanks for comin’ with me.”

“Anytime,” responded Paul, and revised it to “anytime not during school hours” upon seeing the look on his father’s face.

John smiled and shook Jim’s hand again and climbed back on the motorbike, starting it and disappearing into the streets as though he had never been there at all. Paul watched him leave and yet could not recall whether he had even made a left or right turn out of the driveway once he turned back to his father, who ushered him toward the house eagerly.

It was pathetic, the immediate emotional dip he took without John nearby.

But he was still happy, his father’s hand on his back, talking animatedly while he held the door and helped his exhausted son inside. He _had_ missed this. When Paul turned into the living room, he found exactly what he was expecting to-- dirty cereal and oatmeal bowls resting on the coffee table alongside empty water glasses, stacks of Mike’s comic books with their colorful drawings and even more colorful titles, Jim’s single mug of tea for the day half-full and entirely cold. But there was also something that was out of place.

“Somethin’ isn’t right here,” said Paul. “I feel like the armchair is different.”

“Don’t be an arse,” said George from the armchair.

“Did you get new furniture while I was away?”

George rolled his eyes spectacularly ( _God, he had missed that, nobody could roll their eyes quite like a Harrison_ ), which contrasted sharply with his affectionate grin, and proceeded to hug Paul so hard he nearly collapsed a lung.

“How are you, lad?” asked George.

“Same as usual,” said Paul. “Dancin’ in the rain an’ readin’ romance novels, y’know me.” He struggled against George’s grip, trying to breathe.

“I do,” said George. “An’ that’s why I’m gonna have to ask you what the hell you did with my best mate.”

“What?”

“Paul McCartney calls his da when he gets home fifteen minutes late from work,” said George, leaning his head back to narrow his eyes at Paul but still not letting go. “Paul McCartney once told me that he’s never been sent to the dean’s office except to receive an award.”

Paul squirmed. “Well, I guess I’m a changed man now that I’ve been out on the road for a while.”

“You’re about as far from a man as one can get,” George said, and Paul couldn’t decide whether it was a slight at his sexuality or not. And then he remembered that George was the most accepting person he knew and didn’t trouble himself with those thoughts any further. “An’ if you’re a new man, we have to change your name.”

“ _We_ have to change it?”

“Well, yeah. I need practice with baby names if I’m goin’ to become a godfather.”

He winked and Paul flushed, using the opportunity to free himself from George’s steel-trap grasp. “What are you thinkin’ then?”

“You should drop the _James_ completely and jus’ be Paul, an’ you should do a fun last name. Like Morrissey.”

“ _Paul Morrissey?_ ”

“Yeah, that could work,” said George proudly. Paul did not think it could work.

Mike made his grand entrance by tromping down the stairs and into the living room, flinging himself on the couch, and announcing: “I need to see the telly. Move your legs.”

“Fat chance,” said Paul at the same time George said “anything for you, Mini McCartney,” which always amused Mike so it was too late and they were forced to step aside.

“He’s happy to see me,” said Paul as they headed into the kitchen.

George poked his head in the fridge and looked for something that wasn’t garlic bread, cheese, or apples. “Yeah, he doesn’t care that much. Jus’ wants--”

“You didn’t forget, did you?” asked Mike, wandering into the kitchen right on cue and pushing George aside to retrieve a Coke from the fridge. “About us switchin’ rooms?”

Paul frowned. “You weren’t serious about that, were you?”

“Deadly,” said Mike.

And so Paul begrudgingly moved into Mike’s room with a little help from George, who turned out to be a little stoned. With Paul’s full-body exhaustion, they made a spectacular failure of a combination and ended up passing out before dinner on Paul’s new floor.

George looked excellent in the yellow hat.

\------

The first of August came at the stroke of midnight, as the first of August usually does, and Paul was laying awake in bed… _Mike’s_ bed, goddamn him. He stared at the ceiling and the clock in intervals, feeling an odd sense of deja vu to the night of the first of July; when he had laid awake in bed staring at the ceiling and the clock in intervals feeling no odd sense of deja vu because he had not yet experienced it.

His arms felt empty without John there, and the bed felt cold and unfamiliar. At least in the hotel rooms, the beds had been _warm_ and unfamiliar.

He wondered when Mike had last washed these sheets and decided he didn’t want to know.

Liverpool would be different over the next month. It was due to be the hottest month of the year, which meant it might peak at a solid sixty-eight degrees! That would bring out the teenage birds in their shorts, too short for school regulation; the middle-aged men in their polos-- now unbuttoned, equally risque to the birds’ shorts, according to Jim. Little kids running around in their swimsuits, having just escaped their mothers’ grasps at the public pool, holding goggles and gross damp bags of popcorn.

Paul wondered what a visitor might see when they came to Liverpool. Would they see it as an artist’s haven, full of galleries and pubs with live music, or would they see it as a dying city full of middle-aged families with their spoiled kids? Would they be able to see it through the lens of somebody who lived there? Or merely as somebody passing through, as he had with Swindon, Lancaster, Manchester…

A shadowy figure made itself known by bumping loudly into the dresser parked by the door and Paul decided to exit his head for a minute or so.

“Hello?” he whispered and then shook his head at himself. _Hopefully, it’s not a fucking burglar. Get ready to be knocked over the head._

_Maybe he’ll steal that god-awful dresser._

“What the hell is a dresser doin’ in front of your door? Are you tryin’ to keep me out?” The figure put his hands out in front of him and blindly felt his way toward the end of the bed.

“John?” Paul asked, surprised.

“Yeah, it’s me,” whispered John, putting a finger to his lips. “Be quiet.”

“How did you get in here?”

“Climbed in through the window. Mike jus’ about pissed himself when he saw me crouched on the sill like a fuckin’ bat.”

Paul laughed and John shushed him, sitting down gingerly on the end of the bed beside Paul’s feet. He sniffed loudly and asked, “How’d you end up in this dump?”

“The room?” asked Paul.

“Yeah, the room. It smells… odd,” John said with obvious distaste.

“Mike used to stash Easy Cheese under his mattress and the can broke, so it exploded everywhere. It’s gonna smell like that for good. Best get used to it.”

“That’s the grossest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever heard,” said John, who Paul could believe had both heard and said grosser things. “You’re sleepin’ on a cheese mattress.”

“Not doin’ much sleepin’, in my defense.”

“Oh, and what might we be doin’?” John waggled his eyebrows, vaguely visible in the dim moonlight streaming in through the open window.

“ _Tryin’_ to sleep. Get your mind out of the gutter… an’, well, this sounds daft, but… I dunno,” he murmured, propping himself up on one elbow. “I couldn’t quite get to sleep without you.”

John may have thought he was hidden in the darkness, but Paul could see his bashful grin, glowing in the moonlight just like his hair. He looked almost angelic, wreathed in silver light, so much softer than the sunlight that caught that hair of his and set it aflame. 

“Well, good thing I came ‘round,” he said, and climbed into bed with Paul.

“Why _did_ you come ‘round?” Paul asked, scooting closer to the wall to make room for him. John settled comfortably on his side of the bed, tucked close to Paul. The twin-sized mattress was almost too small for the pair of them, laying side-by-side and facing one another.

John said, “Don’t sound so happy to see me.”

“John.”

“Macca.”

“Tell me, please, love.”

There was a pause in the conversation, but it didn’t seem like avoidance on John’s part, as it once may have. John was visibly thinking about his answer and Paul reached out to push his fringe off his forehead with a frankly humiliating degree of fondness. “I couldn’t sleep either. Missed you.”

“Soft lad. We just spent a whole month together,” said Paul, but he thought he might have been the soft one considering the butterflies that simple statement set off through him.

“An’ we had much better lodgings than this. Is that a Cindy Crawford poster?” John squinted at the poster and Paul quickly removed John’s glasses, giggling at the bewildered and somewhat offended expression on his face.

“Yeah, Mike got it from one of his mates. He’s lucky Da doesn’t ever come in here.” _Can’t stand the smell. It’s embedded in the carpet and the mattress and probably all his clothes._

“Probably can’t stand the smell either.”

“You can leave if it’s so bloody intolerable.” Paul rolled his eyes.

“How’d you end up in here anyway?” John asked again. He was rubbing his hand up and down the outside of Paul’s thigh and it was soothing enough that Paul was beginning to feel his eyes slip shut.

“I traded with Mike,” Paul said, who figured that was the simplest response he could give without directly admitting he had done it for time with John.

“Figured that bit out, thanks. Why’d you trade with Mike?”

“...he was tryin’ to blackmail me, so I said he could have the room in exchange for him keepin’ quiet.”

“Sounds like he did blackmail you. Christ, Macca, jus’ give me a straight answer.”

Paul paused and decided he should think about his answer too. It wasn’t a very solid thinking session, considering he immediately admitted what he did not want to admit. “He overheard me talkin’ on the phone and found out I was goin’ on a trip with you. So I told him I’d give him my bedroom if he kept his trap shut until I was gone.”

They both paused, looking at each other in the faint light and Paul smiled a little, seeing that softly dumbfounded expression on John’s face. Like he couldn’t possibly imagine a universe in which Paul’s words were the truth.

“You gave up your bedroom for me?” he said, the end turning up like a question when it was meant to be a statement. His voice was incredulous in a gentle way.

“Yeah. Wouldn’t you do the same?” Paul asked, more of a general wondering aloud than a question. _Questions that are not questions._

“I wouldn’t have to bribe Mimi into not tellin’ Mimi about me.”

Paul sighed. “You know what I mean.”

Another pause and John was staring up at him again, eyes wide. “I can’t believe you gave up your bedroom for me. This is so shitty.”

“Well, I didn’t think he was actually gonna make me do it,” Paul grumbled.

“Would you have done it if you’d known?”

“...yeah.”

“Oh, darlin’,” John said, looking like he was close to tears. _Over a bedroom._

“Don’t get all sappy on me now,” said Paul, “we’re still lyin’ on Easy Cheese with Cindy Crawford starin’ at us. An’ I don’t know when he last vacuumed, so I hope you’re wearin’ shoes.”

“I hope I can take ‘em off and get comfortable,” John said in that tone of voice which indicates something is more a request than a suggestion.

“Go ahead. Jus’ make sure you get out of here before mornin’,” Paul said, and yet he wasn’t worried. He didn’t worry about Jim walking in on them sleeping in the same bed; after all, didn’t Jim do the very same thing on that road trip with his buddy Louis, all those years ago? Was it possibly the very same situation John and Paul were in?

Besides, he could always fashion a rope, made from Mike’s suspicious sheets, and toss John down to the ground like in _Romeo and Juliet._ He thought that might be a little unnecessary, but precautions should be taken nonetheless.

John finally tucked himself under the covers and cuddled up to Paul’s side as though they had never slept this way before, as opposed to every day for the past week and a half.

Silence passed like the summer breeze: soft and quiet and peaceful.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Paul after a while. He wondered if anybody really knew what they were looking for on road trips. He wondered if John knew.

“Not exactly,” said John. His voice was soft and drowsy, a tone of voice that was familiar now to Paul. It was impossible to believe he had gone so long without this version of John. He had gone without most versions of John, and he hadn’t even known it.

“Then was it even worth it? Dragging my arse all over England?”

John chuckled quietly, his breath coming out in puffs against Paul’s neck. He nestled closer and squeezed Paul’s upper arms. “I didn’t find what I set out to,” he said, even fainter now. “But I found something else… I think it might be nearly as fantastic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost can't believe it's over... I had such a great time writing this and I just want to sincerely thank everybody who took the time to read, comment, and leave kudos on this fic. I was definitely not expecting so many people to enjoy it and I'm really grateful for all the encouragement. 
> 
> Please feel free to come talk to me on Tumblr @flightofthebluealiens! I'd love to hear what you think of this fic and maybe even get some drabble requests and the like. I should be posting a couple of oneshots soon but then again, I should also probably get some sleep for once in my life.
> 
> And thank you, of course, to mossintheconcrete, who will eventually read Beatles fic for reasons outside of beta-ing. Your corruption will be swift and inevitable.


End file.
